


Lemon Lolli

by WriterChick



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Also this is only 10 chapters - recovery is YEARS, Can't say that enough, Crime, F/M, Graphic Description, Guns, He's a sick puppy, Humilation, M for violence, Mention of Abuse After the Fact, Minor Character Deaths, Not necessarily realistic to true trauma recovery, Petyr is pretty twisted in this, Ramsay dies in the first chapter...so that's encouraging, Scars, Sexual Abuse, Shooting, Slow Burn, So there is zero insensitivity truly meant towards victims of abuse and trauma survivors, Stockholm Syndrome For the Win!, This is a total work of FICTION, Trauma, Twisted Recovery, Violence, but she digs it, crime lord, description of Rape, eventually, forced sexual encounters, maladaptive coping skills, this is sooo not the example of a well adjusted relationship, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-01-10 04:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12291762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterChick/pseuds/WriterChick
Summary: Expanded from a prompt for PB Week -- Petyr has to win Sansa's heart after he rescues her from Ramsay, only to keep her for himself.





	1. The Rescue

When two men brandishing automatic rifles, burst through the door to Ramsay Bolton’s hideout, a dozen girls scattered. All the ones that could, that is. Some were so incapacitated by his “tough love,” that walking wasn’t possible anymore.

Ramsay’s men, caught unarmed in various states of undress, surrendered quickly, their fingers pointing to a heavy metal door on the other side of the room. It had a thick metal bar on the outside indicating that he meant to keep something in rather than out.

The intruders glanced down at their phones reading the next directive. Their eyes locked for a second in understanding before turning to shoot each man with target precision, neither uttering a word as they did.

It was the crack of shots fired that pulled Bolton from his special room, rather than the sound of his women screaming. Desperate women wailing had become the soundtrack to his dwelling, so much so that it was fitting he had become deaf to it.

He emerged, bare chested and bloody, a sweaty sheen covered his pasty-white flesh. His smile was maniacal as he surveyed the room. “Well, I guess I’m going to have to get some more men.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Littlefinger said as he crossed the threshold. He moved effortlessly over the carnage beneath his feet, not a drop of it staining his designer shoes. His hands remained in the pockets of his rich charcoal suit, the glint of his platinum chain accenting both the blazer as well as the silver of his temples. Littlefinger was no new player in this game of supply and demand. Neither was he naive to the expenses paid.

“Ah, Baelish. How have you been since we last saw each other?” Ramsay kept the gun he was holding dropped to his side. He was too stupid to recognize the need to pull it, foolishly certain that it wouldn’t come to that.

Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish pulled a lollipop from his pocket, smiling as he asked, “Since you last saw me, or since I last saw you?”

“Oh,” Ramsay pointed at him with his free hand, open-mouthed amusement on his face. “You’ve been watching me!”

“I hate bad investments. Really, I do. They haunt me,” Littlefinger sucked on the lollipop.

Ramsay shrugged. “Look, about the boats–”

A wave of his hand dismissed the words before they were uttered. “I don’t care about the boats. Just the girls, you haven’t been very good to them, have you?”

Ramsay laughed and gestured around the room. “You would do all this, kill my men, invade my love nest, over a bunch of  _whores_?”

“I must mitigate my losses,” Petyr explained as he eyed a blonde girl by the window, and twirled the stick in his mouth.

Ramsay scoffed, “What’s a whore’s worth compared to that of a shipment?”

“Whores rarely sink.” The edge to Littlefinger’s sentiment would have blanched the strongest of men. Unfortunately, the neurons in Ramsay’s brain did not appear to fire in the direction of common sense.

“Clever,” Ramsay took a step forward, his grin so forced that it looked genuinely painful to maintain. He had just opened his mouth to continue when Littlefinger raised his hand. It didn’t appear to be towards anyone in particular, and yet Oswell and Brune acted upon the gesture immediately. The seasoned gunmen were subtle in their movements. Ramsay never had warning to raise his pistol in defense before two bullets tore through his skull.

Oswell turned swiftly to evacuate the girls. The man had been instructed ahead of time to load them into a van that would take them to the good doctor’s. Rumor of Ramsay warned that they would need patching up before they could fall back into the working rotation. “ _Brune_ ,” Littlefinger intoned.

With long, swift strides, his man approached on his right. He opened the door cautiously, peering inside. His voice was gruff and his explanation minimal, “One woman.”

What threat was one woman? Littlefinger crunched the remainder of the hard candy from the stick and dropped it on the Bolton body he stepped over.

She was tied to the bed by her wrists and ankles. He sighed at the sight. For a man who claimed he had such singular tastes, Ramsay certainly could have been more original. As a purveyor of beauty and discretion, both equally important, Littlefinger accommodated all manner of inclinations. All desires being valid to a man with a full purse. He would have supplied him with the appropriate women to the job. Instead Ramsay had the audacity to steal them at random.

People didn’t steal from Littlefinger. Ever. Not even with the promise of imports and exports to distract. It was moronic to think his focus could be manipulated, though it was always those who suffered a bloodlust as Ramsay had, that so often lacked enough of it flowing in their brain.

Gods she was filthy. A dirty film on her limbs, caking in every bend, her hair a tangled matted mess hiding her face. She was motionless, and did not flinch as he pulled the knife from his pocket, using it to lift greasy copper locks out of the way.

He peered down at the curve of her jaw, the cave in her cheeks, and the chap of her lips. In that moment he could discern three things: She’d been there for quite a while. She seemed familiar to him, yet he did not know her personally. And she was breathing, however shallowly.

She was either unconscious or acting. He pulled the knife away and played wise. “You can stop pretending; you aren’t fooling me.”

No response, no gentle stir of her features, no subtle slide of pupil beneath closed lid. She may have truly been knocked unconscious. By the look of her bruises, she’d definitely been hit hard enough. His eyes scanned the length of her again, taking in all the colorful markings and abrasions. It would be much more efficient to poke the arch of her foot with his blade, answer the question once and for all. However, the idea that she was playing dead, committed to her ruse, excited him and he found himself wanting that to be the case. Though his blade lingered down her calf, it did not pierce her heel, but instead severed her constraints. The rope made a satisfying snapping sound as it broke.

In an instant, she took flight, her tattered dress and ratty mop a blur as she made for the door. Brune didn’t need instruction to know he was to stop her, neither did he need direction to bring her closer for a better look.

She struggled in his arms, biting and spitting to be free. When her hair whipped to the side and she opened her eyes to scowl at him Petyr was immediately arrested by the vibrant blue irises that accused him. So crisp and cool were they, that he felt his heart speed up and his cock shamelessly stir. Who was she to possess such eyes, such effect? She was Ramsay’s broken toy, nothing more. Littlefinger swallowed before he said, “You’re not one of mine.”

“I am no one’s,” she bared her teeth, snarling her hatred for him, for Ramsay, for what she didn’t know and what she knew all too well.

His cheek twitched at her declaration, admirable as it was. “I’ll make you the same offer I’ve made all of my girls.” He pulled a wad of hundreds out of his wallet and held it in the air, “Employment.” He set the folded wad on the bed before he unholstered his gun and set it on the mattress. “Or, a way out.”

She breathed heavy in Brune’s grip, her eyes darting between the two options. “Gun.”

Petyr turned his head slowly, studying her more closely. No one picked death. No one. His hand hovered over the gun, ready to give her what she opted for. His palm and the metal of the pistol appeared to be of the same charge, repelling each other, not allowing his hand to close over it.  _Fuck._

Frustrated, he reached in his pocket and grabbed another lollipop. “Want one?”

She chuckled in a cracked voice that begged for water and electrolytes. “Is that how you get girls? Offer them lollipops?”

Petyr felt his cheeks dimple in pleasure at her snark. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so genuinely, and certainly not because of a woman. He teased back, “Well, the promise of a puppy doesn’t work as well as it used to.”

Her eyes widened and her grin grew to the point that her lips bled in places. It was obvious she was suffering for this moment of happiness, and it only made his dimples deepen further.

“You got any lemon?” She asked without a care in the world, as if she wasn’t on death’s door.

He rifled through his pockets, set on finding her a lemon lollipop, a flavor he would normally push aside in favor of another. “Afraid, I don’t have any.”

“What a shame,” her voice drawled, almost  _bored_. In such a precarious position, one would think she’d be a bit less nonchalant. Perhaps Ramsay had beaten the sense of survival out of her? After all, she had chosen death over life.

Petyr tucked the money away and rose from the bed, pistol in hand. His expressionless mask remained firmly in place.  

She gulped, “I guess we’re all done with the niceties now?” She shifted in Brune’s grip, the blue flame in her eyes boring into Petyr’s. “Go ahead and finish me, Littlefinger.”

There was something about her, those blue eyes, that hair, her unwillingness to yield. The words were out of his mouth before he had a moment to consider them, “Call me Petyr.”

She blinked at him, confused. Her head turned, trying to figure him.

Good luck, sweetling.

People hadn’t been able to truly see him since he was a boy. Not since– _Cat_. His lips tightened and his brows furrowed as he studied the face before him. Under all the dirt and grime, was the perfect mirror of his childhood love. Things had changed since then, vastly.

He would never have allowed Catelyn Stark to see him this way, the hardened crime lord who had climbed through the chaos. At one time, he had thought she was so honorable a woman, that she might keep to the opposite side of the street to avoid a man like him, should she ever learn the depths to which he’d risen.

He flicked his gaze to the shell of a woman in front of him. So like her, and yet so different. She had her beauty and her bravery, but she possessed something more. This girl had lived in the darkness of another, seen what men like him were capable of. She chose death, no silly naivety telling her that there was any other option available to her. Idiots tried to seduce their way out of slavery or death, this woman tried to outsmart him with her death performace and then quickly regrouped. Petyr admired her flexibility and quick thinking, similar traits in himself that had saved his life more than a couple of times.

He addressed Brune as if she hadn’t said anything, “Put her in my car with me.”

She scowled, “I chose death!”

“And I vetoed your vote,” Petyr smiled, unwrapping the lollipop.

Her laugh was sick and hopeless. “Great. I get to live, as Littlefinger’s personal whore. Until he tires of me.”

He popped the candy in his mouth, savoring the sparkle of her eyes. “I told you, call me Petyr.”

“Fuck you!” She screeched, kicking and biting at Brune as he dragged her away.

Petyr sighed happily at the prospect of winning his love all over again. Version 2.0. She would be his, but not as his whore. He planned to win her affection, if for no other reason then that he did so love to win. The fire in her promised a much greater reward than the fantasy of Catelyn had all those years ago.

He was careful to mind his step over Ramsay’s discarded body as he made for the exit. A quick look at the wrapper in his pocket had him searching the candy company in his phone. It wasn’t until he got to the front door that the ringing stopped and the customer service representative answered.

“Do you make this lollipop in a lemon flavor?” He asked, Brune opening the car door for him.

“Yes,” the disembodied voice confirmed.

“Great,” he smiled as he climbed in to sit beside the angry banshee next to him. “I’d like to place an order for three boxes.”

She flew across the seat at him, ready to claw him to death for not allowing her a quick end. With the phone in the crook of his neck, he caught her arms and restrained her against him. “Hush,  _my love_. I’m on the phone,” he smiled into her ear. He looked up at Brune again, “Tell Olyvar to have a room readied for her at the house.”


	2. Free Rein

The woman beside him alternated between silence and profanity, and made it a point to sit as far away as the car would allow. He admired her fire, and found it difficult to take his eyes off of her, even in her compromised state. As difficult as it was, he held his tongue, allowing her the chance to struggle through her feelings towards finding some semblance of acceptance. She was his now, and until he could be certain she returned his desire, he would play his cards carefully. 

Best she realize their future together sooner rather than later. 

Littlefinger had groomed many women over the years, and knew the most effective way of gaining compliance started with a polite stoicism. They could kick and scream, fight with all their vigor, but would eventually calm once they realized they were the only ones behaving as such. Granted that was for whores, and this was meant to be different, but it was the same principle surely.

Oswell was first out of the vehicle, opening the door for him. He stepped out, watching Brune circle the car towards her door and he held up his hand to stop him. Brune halted immediately. Petyr walked around to her side, feeling it was good primacy to let her see him open doors for her. She glanced up, filled with doubt, as she looked at the mansion before her. 

He smiled pleasantly, waiting for her to inch out and touch her foot to the paved drive. She looked from side to side and he knew she was gauging the distance from her to the cover of trees. She didn’t know he had an electric fence embedded in the treeline, meant to keep business competitors out. It could easily be used to keep his love in, if necessary. He held his hand out to assist her and she stared at it for a moment, deciding. Petyr sincerely hoped the fence wouldn’t be necessary.

She slid her hand into his, a slight tremble to it. Conflict overcame him. He felt joy that she was willing to receive his assistance, and disgust with the grime she came with. He smiled absently as he escorted her to the door, ignoring her quiet gasp as she her eyes followed the heavy solid oak door all the way to its second story arch. He’d always believed in style, and felt that it was a favorable trait of his. Surely she would come to appreciate his tastes, if she wasn’t already? 

They were met with Ros in the slutty sailor outfit he’d picked out earlier. She had light red hair and dull blue eyes that verged more on hazel in some lights. He tried not look her in the eyes, not wanting her to confuse his attention for anything more than it was. As the good servant she was, angling for more praise, she launched right into their roleplay. “Mm, Captain, did you bring another Private to join us?” 

“It’s Sergeant Major, Ros. That rank’s the highest,” Littlefinger corrected. Then he added, “You’re slipping.” He turned from her to flash a quick grin towards his captive. 

She blinked back at him. Where was her sharp wit and cutting comments? She took no issue with belting them out when she was on the verge of death, yet now seeing that her time was far from over, she kept them to herself. He supposed he should appreciate her ability to censor herself when necessary. Self-control would be useful later. He wouldn’t deny the pleasure he would take in her scolding Ros with him, however.

He turned to his ever faithful servant, and on occasion, Catelyn-stand in. “We’ll have to cancel our plans this evening.” 

“But I was ready in time,” Ros pouted. He knew she was referring to when he told her that if she wasn’t in costume and character by the time he got home, there would be no sex-play for her. Olyvar managed his house, and Ros maintained it. Littlefinger often rewarded her obedience with a dose of his sexuality. Petyr simply enjoyed the warm feel of a woman that could take him back in time with the right lighting. Olyvar was paid higher. Littlefinger felt it all evened out in the wash. 

He reached forward, holding her chin up to better look her in the eye. He was mindful of the woman beside him, catching his impropriety with his maid. “I know, you’ve been a very good girl. But I’ve brought my love home, for the first time. It’s important.”

Ros’ eyes widened, having never heard him refer to anyone as  _ my love _ , before. 

“She must take priority, Ros.” He tilted her head up, then down slightly as he asked, “Do you understand?” 

She made to move away from him, but his eyes narrowed at her, warning her against it. “Yes, sir. I understand.” 

He released her, his tone suddenly much warmer as he gestured his love forward. “Excellent! She will need to be bathed. I’m sure you can help her with that.” 

“If we are not to play tonight, may I change?” Ros looked down at her dress. 

He waved her off, “Of course! Please, dispose of _all_ the costumes. We have no more need of them.” 

“Surely, you don’t mean--” She began to protest. 

“I do,” his answer was swift. He smiled at the woman he meant to love and explained, “There is only room for one in my heart. I can be a faithful man.”

He watched his maid escort his love to the bathroom and turned to find Olyvar. The girl looked as though she’d scarcely eaten. He would have Olyvar prepare a dinner for them. He hadn’t eaten either, and only then felt hunger pull at his insides. 

It was not long after he’d given him the directive, that he could smell food cooking. He smiled merrily to himself, knowing that if he could smell it, she would as well. It would make her more predisposed to sitting with him, even if she didn’t desire to. Food would be his in. Not to mention the opportunity to wash away all the dirt and misery of her time with Ramsay. He felt his fists clench over the idea of what the Bolton had done to her. 

She was so young, though so fierce and strong, mouthing off to Littlefinger himself. She fought him in the car at first, and then shunned him. Who else had ever dared treat him that way? Catelyn wouldn’t have. Not like that, anyway. Not to Littlefinger, maybe to Petyr, though not even in the same way. Catelyn would have raised her nose to him and stated her displeasure quietly, “I’m disappointed in you, Petyr.” 

Perhaps that’s why he loved her when he was a boy. He constantly desired approval, from the moment he was born, and she easily gave it with one hand and took it away with the other. It made him follow her around like a lost puppy, trying to keep her happy. 

That was then. 

Petyr had spent the majority of his life trying to win her over, only to be rebuffed time and time again. She was Catelyn Tully when he loved her, Catelyn Stark when he loved the idea of her, and now she was no more. He’d love the memory of what it was like to love her, if nothing else. It was all death would allow him. 

He chided himself, what did he care? The moment she turned Stark, their communication was severed and he knew so little of her until her death. Rumor was that she had a small litter of children, though he could never bear to look into it and validate the claim. Why would he want to see her children? Her blood mixed with another’s?

He strolled into the dining room, watching as Olyvar worked quickly to set the table and bring the food out. He smiled up at him, “Candlelight, sir? I am told you are dining with your _amore_. Candlelight is most romantic.”

He started to nod his approval, but thought of how little he’d seen her face. He waved his hand, “No, Olyvar. Standard lighting will be quite alright.”

Olyvar bowed his head and pocketed his lighter as he turned back into the kitchen. Ros’ voice startled Petyr, though he managed to hide it. “Here we are, dear.” 

How quickly the jilted maid recovered, and knew to care for the woman he brought home. Ros’ adaptability was her best survival skill. He turned with grace, not allowing either woman to know his surprise. 

Shock was the more appropriate descriptor. 

It was Catelyn in the flesh that stared back at him. He’d known that their features were similar, that much he could tell through a layer of dirt. He hadn’t realized how so very alike they were. People had doppelgangers out in the world, or at least that’s what many people said. Had Petyr encountered his only love’s doppelganger? Had he also claimed he would love her as ardently, entirely unintentionally? 

No. 

Littlefinger only ever moved purposefully. That was how he survived in this world of his own making. This had to be deliberate, on some level, even if just unconsciously. Ros held her chair out for her and he cursed himself for being so stalled by the sight of her. He should have pulled her chair, not his maid. 

“I hope you are hungry,” Olyvar laid her plate before her. 

“I’m fine,” her voice was so soft, compared to the gravel she choked words through at Ramsay’s. Petyr smirked, feeling how much of a difference their short time together was making. It could have been the change in scenery, the hospitality of a shower and a warm meal, but he rather liked the idea that it was his personal effect on her. He fell in love with the spitfire he met, and hoped to see her returned at some point, but would enjoy this more docile version as they acquainted themselves with each other.

The woman, his love, watched as Olyvar laid her plate in front of her, her eyes betraying her hunger. Of course she was hungry. Poor thing. Her cheeks looked so hollow in the harsh florescent lighting of her cell, yet seemed to fill in the warmth of his home. Her health was returning to her already. Petyr had heard that soulmates thrived when they were united. Perhaps this was written in the stars? Again his imagination ran rampant.

Petyr gestured for her to take a bite of her food, “Please, eat.” 

When she hesitated, he took a bite of his. Smart girl. It had never been his intention to poison her, but he adored her all the more for considering the possibility. After he had chewed his second bite and she still hadn’t touched hers, he sighed deeply. “You are wise to distrust me. I will not fault you, your strengths.” He rose from his seat, gripping his plate as he did. She froze in place as he approached her, and leaned back in her chair when he reached for her plate, swapping it for his own. 

He loomed over her for a moment, leering at her soft lips and rounded chest. Ros did not share the same size as her, and only a robe would fit her frame. He turned back towards his end of the table, speaking as he walked. “I will order you some clothes tonight, so that you don’t feel as if you are made to be indecent.” 

He sat down, letting his eyes meet hers again. She had already carved off a piece of meat and brought it to her lips. No other sight brought him as much pleasure, not even his private memories of Catelyn. 

Littlefinger decided it was time to get down to brass tacks. Too many emotions were filling his heart and he felt the best play was to outline the rules. He speared his broccoli and nudged some mashed potato on it with his knife. He spoke to her as he would any other business partner. “You’ll find that your experience with me will be very different from your previous living situation.” 

That was putting it nicely. He didn’t need to look at her to see that it she needed more civilities in her young life. How old was she? He told himself not to look up and examine her any further. There would be plenty of time for that.

There was a soft sound from the other end of the table. It could have been a snort, but she appeared too beautiful--he chose not to see the bruises, to make such a noise. Her face gave nothing away, so he continued, “You are not a prisoner here.” 

“I’m free to leave?” Her words were swift as her eyes darted for the exits. 

“I’d rather you not.” Petyr’s own eyes took note of the doors that surrounded them. 

She dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “But I could? If _ I  _ wanted to?”

“I would hope, that in time, our desires will align,” Petyr lifted the napkin to his lips. “It is not my desire for you to leave, or I wouldn’t have bothered to bring you here.” 

“Why did you?” Her brows furrowed in accusation, then quickly smoothed, her voice softer as she asked, “If I may ask?” 

He rose from his seat, seeing she had pushed her plate away, only eating so much. Littlefinger let his mind wonder whether it was because she still thought it was poisonous or if it was because she was disciplined in her diet even though she’d been starved. Petyr decided that it was either due to her anxiety or because her poor stomach would not stretch enough to finish the serving, having been denied for so long. He felt his own stomach turn at that. How anyone could enact such cruelties on such a beautiful creature was beyond him. Yet he did similarly often, though not to  _ her _ .

She had risen to meet him, quick out of the seat to see where he would lead. He moved to place an arm around her as he gestured forward towards the door, then stopped himself. It was important that she grow accustomed to his touch, but it was more important for her to feel an intimacy that wasn’t forced upon her. He knew that enough. Petyr was lonely and desired a love in his life. Littlefinger was cold and unfeeling, and did whatever needed to be done. Perhaps both sides to the same man could agree that she needed time?

He held her question at bay as he explained. “I give you free rein of my home,” he lead her through the dining room door. “There is no room to you that is off limits. I will make the staff aware.” 

She followed him up the stairs, eyeing him as she did. “And what about the outside?” 

He sighed, hating that he had to say it, but respecting that she would ask. “The grounds are available to you, though I must warn you, the perimeter isn’t breachable.” 

Any comment she might have had on the situation, stayed with her. He walked her to the nicest guest room he owned. It was at the end of the hall, opposite his own. In constructing the house, it was planned that way purposefully so that any guests of major importance wouldn’t hear the screams of ecstasy and pleasure that emitted from the master bedroom. At least, that’s what Petyr pretended and Littlefinger worked towards. 

She hesitated in front of the door and he felt the need to assure her. “I will not force myself upon you. This is your room to use until you are finished with it.”

“Then why keep me here?” She furrowed her brow at him as he opened the door for her. She took a step forward into the bedroom, her eyes landing on the bed. “If not to…” 

Was _ rape _ suddenly too harsh of a word for her? The girl who had no trouble arguing him mere hours before hand. Choosing to save her the task of saying it aloud, he jumped in. “I’ve already told you, you are  _ my love _ .”

“But, you don’t even know my name.” Her eyes were as large as he’d ever seen them. Was this how she looked when she was apprehensive? 

She would never doubt him, not if he had anything to say about it. He smoothed his voice, and let his fingers toy with the doorknob flirtatiously. “Will you share it with me?” 

She paused for only a fraction of a second before she lifted her head in certainty and divulged, “Sansa.” 

He smirked, enjoying her caution, “Sansa, what?” 

“My last name?” She asked, squirming her discomfort with such a level of disclosure. Finally she sighed, looking tired as she asked, “Can’t I keep that to myself? For now?”

Now, that got his attention. Why would she want to hide her identity from him? “No.” She looked so disappointed. He explained, “In my experience, not having information can be quite deadly.”

She stalled, nervously looking around the room. “You’re  _ Littlefinger. _ ”

He bowed his head, surprised by how little he liked hearing that particular name spoken aloud by her. He insisted, “And you’re Sansa _ Somebody _ .”

She ignored his last comment as she pressed forward, her voice more confident, though not as much as before. “Surely, whatever danger a lack of information presents, especially in regards to a  _ whore’s _ name, Littlefinger can manage.”

How eloquently put. And most likely true. 

“For now,” he gave in. On the one hand, she was a whore, what threat did she pose? On the other hand, Ramsay kept her special, why would he do that? Petyr cocked his head to the side, examining her once more before he turned back towards the door. He wasn’t sure how long his hubris would allow her this secret, but saw no need to press it in that moment. 

“Thank you,” she looked away as she said it, as if she didn’t believe herself that she’d ever be thankful to Littlefinger of all people. She followed him to the door, eyeing the lock on it. 

Slightly offended, Petyr’s lips pursed, “You may use it if you feel you must, but I assure you, you won’t need it.” 

She looked up at him, doubt clouding her eyes. To her credit, she appeared as though she was trying to hold it back, but it was clear in her all the same. He felt his jaw tighten as he insisted, “I told you, I have no intention of forcing you.” Rather than respond to her skeptical gaze, Littlefinger scanned the length of her, a sinful grin on his lips as he added, “It will be me that wakes to the soft tap of your knuckles on my bedroom door one night, not the other way around.” 

Petyr turned quickly, leaving before she could hurt him further with either her silence or her disbelief.


	3. Playing Poison

He thought that the lemon lollipop he left at her door was a nice touch. Granted, the invitation would have looked much more elegant if Olyvar presented it on a silver platter, wearing that nice pair of white gloves he’d received as a holiday bonus. Littlefinger may have made his money in the dirtiest of ways, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the finer things in life, and a sense of style definitely counted for something. 

In the end, Petyr decided against what would have been the perfect presentation, and instead went for something a bit more personal to their romance. Women liked that sort of thing, personal touches. He decided that his love shouldn’t have to look upon Olyvar’s face while she read Petyr’s invitation. Kindling a passion for him that she didn’t know she felt was private and meant to be kept between only them. Olyvar’s face was simply not an association with love that Littlefinger was willing to allow. 

Days after she shared her name with him, Petyr let it spin and swirl around his head. It was beautiful and original. He smiled to himself, knowing that of course his love would be unique, as Littlefinger would devote himself to no normal woman. It was absurd that she seemed unaware of their immediate connection, but he could not fault her. The poor woman had been so abused, her thoughts and feelings had clearly crossfired and she wasn’t capable of seeing what was so obviously before her. He could only hope that the effects of her trauma were temporary. 

Impatient to learn whether or not they would be, he purchased a couple of books on the subject. Trauma, he learned, was not something to be rushed. He considered how long he waited to find love after Catelyn and decided that he could wait a little longer. Petyr would be a better man for Sansa, and if that meant allowing her to stay in her room for days while she adjusted to the idea of their connection, so be it. 

It was during Ros’ weekly cleaning of his study, on her hands and knees under his desk, dusting away any potential cobwebs out that she pouted up to him, “She’s not even fucking you!” 

No. She wasn’t. Petyr sighed and held Ros’ chin. “I’m sorry, Ros. But you’re just going to have to clean from now on. Please respect my wishes.” He didn’t have to be so kind to her, but he was trying to practice such consideration for his interactions with the love of his life. He wanted to be perfect for Sansa.

“All I’m trying to say is, why doesn’t she want to fuck you, sir?” Her full lips kissed at his palm. 

Littlefinger yanked his hand away, and stole out of his chair. He rolled his eyes and fumed across the room, losing his patience with practice. “Your jealousy is pathetic. You’re either a body cleaning my home or a body filling my yard. Whichever you prefer.” 

They were stupid, insensitive words uttered by a dejected whore. They shouldn’t have mattered, and yet they stayed with him. Why didn’t his love--Sansa, her name was Sansa. He needed to make it a point to remember that. Why didn’t Sansa want him to hold her close, as he had wanted? Soulmates were meant to share the same desires.

Petyr went back and forth on what the next appropriate course of action would be once one brought their lover home. He wanted to show her how true their feelings were through the act of love making. After all, actions spoke louder than words. It was a desire he pushed aside, however, staying true to his word that it would have to be her to initiate such an act of intimacy. The books verified this course of action in dealing with a victim of sexual abuse. He hated that his romance was so stunted by Ramsay’s greedy dick, and if he could kill him all over again he would. 

One look at her scrupulous expression, how it so clearly showed the wheels that turned in her brain, and Petyr was quickly regretting such a promise--the books be damned. She was beyond sexy, and he’d been living life celibate for at least the last seventy-two hours, a real record for Littlefinger. 

Desperate to reach out to her, in the gentlest, most acceptable way possible, Petyr thought back to their witty banter in Ramsay’s cell. She asked him if he lured women with candy, and he joked back because it was what he knew to do. Perhaps that’s what she secretly wanted, to be lured from her room with candy? 

Petyr’s cheeks hurt from smiling the day that not one, but  _ three _ , boxes of lemon flavored lollipops arrived. He wrote on his nicest stationary, with his neatest cursive,  _ Come downstairs for croquet. _

He laid it on a small tray and set a lollipop beside it with care. Littlefinger had never gone through such lengths before to make sure that his request was so appealing, not even with Cat. He paced by the small table in his room that he’d set the tray on, and eyed it from all angles. When he’d finally decided that it was the best course of action, he sent Olyvar to deliver it, with the strict instruction to knock and leave before she could answer. 

She met him in the gardens only two minutes late, though he blamed that on Ros. The girl knew he valued punctuality, and it made sense that she would attempt to make his one true love look lesser in his eyes. He would have addressed it, if he wasn’t so completely taken by the sight of her. He was pleased to see the outfit he’d picked out for her fit her form so well, however hollow it looked. Petyr thought about adding some weight to her, softening her edges. Perhaps he’d tell Olyvar to up pasta night to twice per week, just until she filled out more. 

Ramsay may have enjoyed fucking a helpless skeleton, but Petyr prefered knowing the curve of woman under him. “You’re late, but I forgive you.” 

She looked up at him, biting back whatever response she wanted to give. He wished she’d just say whatever it was. The fiercer the gibe, the harder the erection, after all. He was about to ask her if she knew how to play when he noticed she had already picked up a mallet and stood a the opposite side of the field. “I assume because it’s just the two of us, it’ll be _ cut-throat _ .” 

Oh didn’t her words give him such an ache. The only feeling that could top it was proving her wrong. “On the contrary, I invited both Brune and Oswell to accompany us.” 

“Teams?” She lifted her head. 

“If you prefer,” Petyr acquiesced, loving that she didn’t seem to need any instruction. He’d read how important choice was to someone who’d been controlled by an intimate partner in the past. “You may have your choice of teammates, though I’ll admit that I’d appreciate if we could join forces.” 

She turned to Oswell and Brune, just then noticing them on the green, staying to the off skirts. Their eyes both plead her not to pick them. Littlefinger stifled a chuckle when he realized that she was as merciless as he, choosing Oswell to be her partner. She shrugged, “I think healthy competition is important.” 

_ In a relationship, _ he added mentally before agreeing. “Too right.” He turned to his men, “Brune, you’re with me.” He enjoyed the muted look of horror on the man’s face before he nodded his agreement. 

“Ladies first, please,” Petyr gestured for her to start. 

She lined her yellow ball with the wicket and hit it with the wider side of her mallet, not needing precision at such a close distance. She was quiet, leading Petyr to fill the silence. “It pleases me to see that you know how to play.” 

She mumbled, “It surprises me to see you do.” Her eyebrows shot up at hearing her own words spoken aloud. She turned her head quickly as if to take them back. 

Petyr grinned at her self consciousness. “What made you think I wouldn’t know such a civilized game?” 

Sansa shrugged noncommittally and watched Oswell take his turn. Petyr stared at her, wanting an answer. He wanted to know what she was thinking. More importantly, what she was thinking of him. Brune took his turn next and Petyr didn’t bother to watch where his ball landed, not taking his eye off of Sansa. 

After a moment, she cleared her throat and gestured for him to take his turn. He mirrored her, clearing his throat before extending his hand for her to speak as he said, “I asked you a question.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest, loosely gripping her mallet, her voice unsure as she shook her head. “No reason.” 

Littlefinger grew annoyed with this sudden stoicism. The woman he rescued was on death’s door and full of piss and vinegar. Though, perhaps, that accounted for her sudden reservation. Petyr eyed her closely, taking in the way she nervously gripped herself, and the way she avoided eye contact. She was scared.

Fear was an emotion felt when a person wanted to live. The woman he met in Ramsay’s den welcomed death. It was easy for her to be so brazen then. The fact that she would hold her tongue now only meant that she was starting to value her life. A genuine smile spread across his lips as Petyr realized that his love wanted to live. “You shouldn’t ever edit yourself when you’re with me.” 

Not waiting to hear a response from her, he took his turn, speaking as he struck his ball, “It’s paramount that our relationship is one of true honesty.  _ Full disclosure _ , if you will.”

His ball roqueted hers before it hit the stake, and without hesitation, she took a step forward and hit his rover ball. Both Oswell and Brune shot her panicked look, no doubt silently warning her that Littlefinger didn’t appreciate that sort of game play. Sansa bit her lip and explained, “I thought we were playing Poison.” 

Oswell and Brune blanched at the suggestion and it made Littlefinger snicker. “We can, if you prefer.” 

“I do.” There was an edge beneath the innocent and unsuspecting look she offered him. 

Such depth only added to her appeal. Petyr was helpless to resist her charm. His cheeks hurt as his voice softened flirtatiously. “Alright, Sansa.”

Oswell and Brune took their turns quickly, avoiding all balls in play, even each others. It was Petyr’s turn again and he eyed the course to see any possible way he could hit her ball while still maintaining the pretense of playing. He had just lined his shot up when the soft sound of her voice startled him. “What if I say something you don’t like?” 

He took his shot, quickly recovering. “There are many things in life that I do not like.” Petyr turned to face her. “We must encounter things we don’t like in order to feel the pleasure of challenge.” 

“Is that what I am to you? A challenge?” Sansa straightened at the suggestion. 

“Yes.” He nodded his head towards the course for her to take her turn. “It is through challenges that people grow. We are going to grow together, Sansa.”

She looked down at her ball, aiming as she insisted, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“How does it feel?” He teased. 

She huffed a little as she hit the ball. He waited to see if she would follow it up, but she did not. Petyr attributed that to her self-preservation again and offered her mercy. “If you say something I do not like, I will have to control my reaction, won’t I?” 

“Can you?” Her head was turned towards Oswell, avoiding his gaze. 

He let his eyes trail down her long red locks, over the curve of her ass, to the thin thighs that accentuated the tiny white shorts he’d bought for her sportswear wardrobe. He was pleased to see her wear the clothing he chose for her, modelling it out so well. She was a vision of beauty and entirely all his, as soon as she accepted that fact. Littlefinger enjoyed her fire, but he also anxiously awaited her eventual assent. He licked his lips before he answered, “To climb the ladder, the first skill I had to learn was self-control.” 

Petyr wondered if he said that more to assure her, or remind himself he was capable of reining in his urges. He watched her brush her hair over one shoulder, the sound of Brune hitting his ball in the background. She turned quickly, much too quickly for him to avert his hungry gaze in time. She eyed him skeptically, “Can you maintain your control with  _ me _ ?”

He stumbled for a minute, surprised by her sudden candor. It was a vulnerability he hadn’t expected she’d show him so readily. Petyr stared into the icy blue irises he felt like he could fall into. A blazing mane of hair bordered his vision, blurring the line between his desire and reality. He was speaking before he realized he was. “I have. From the very first night I took you from Ramsay. I offered you a separate room, and the space to be in it.”

“One might think you wanted that space as much as I did,” she questioned gently. 

“I promise you, I have not.” Petyr took a step towards her, forgetting his men in attendance. “From the moment I loaded you into my car, I wanted nothing more than to be close to you. It is through my own self-control that I am able to show the restraint necessary.” 

She looked visibly uncomfortable at that. It was the opposite effect of what he’d been hoping his words would have. She was supposed to open up to him and allow him in. Instead, she looked even more uncomfortable. Desperate to keep whatever ground he’d gained in this exercise, Petyr took another step forward and asked, “Tell me something about yourself? Anything.” 

Sansa froze, noticing how close he was to her. Panic set in her expression as she blurted out, “I have a boyfriend!” 

That was definitely a blow to the chest. Petyr fought not to cough his surprise and hurt. Women didn’t claim boyfriends in the presence of Littlefinger. If anything, they denounced them, dropped their panties and anxiously awaited his particularly skilled dick instead. Beyond uncomfortable with this new development, Petyr smoothed his palms over his shirt. He worked to create doubt. “Do you still think so? After all this time?” 

“What do you mean?” She leaned in, her brow furrowing. 

“Do you know how long you’ve been away?” Littlefinger asked, knowing she didn’t. 

She stood silent, indicating that she didn’t. 

He took that opportunity to affect nonchalance as he aimed his mallet. “It’s easily been two months since you’ve been abducted.” 

“Two months?” Her jaw dropped. 

SMACK! His ball hit hers,  _ hard _ . “Two whole months. I’m not sure how serious you two were, but in my experience, two months is usually _ plenty  _ of time to get over a girlfriend.”

She went to move her ball, only to be stopped. Littlefinger grinned, “Sorry sweetling, I thought we were playing Poison.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks DethroneJane for looking it over for edits :-)


	4. Closet Cleaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has had zero edits, so please be kind, or offer to help lol

Petyr watched with delight as Sansa gaped in disbelief at the mess on the bed. He had called her to his bedroom, taking no little joy in the connotations of the request. She stepped bravely over the threshold, clearly bracing herself for whatever bodily violation was in store for her. 

However delicious the idea was, and however horny he’d grown saving himself for his broken bride-to-be, Petyr had other plans. The books told him that the best way to foster intimacy was to do things together as a couple without the physical expectations of a romantic relationship. When he first read it, he rolled his eyes at the hippy-dippy instruction and searched the image of the author on the inside jacket of the book, looking for a pair of tell-tale birkenstocks. 

He’d spent quite a while respecting Sansa’s space, offering to engage in plutonic activities that he hadn’t shared with another person since Cat. Even then, he took little joy in those activities, viewing them as a means to an end. Now, almost twenty years later, he would be feeling the same, except for two things. The first being the difference between the women and the second being the fact that he was genuinely invested in what the mundane would feel like with Sansa.

In Petyr’s younger years, his study of Cat was exciting to him. She was beautiful and unattainable, and the idea that if he played his cards right, he could achieve the heights of Catelyn Tully was quite the thrill. Studying Sansa provoked quite a different feeling he had with his former flame, despite how eerily similar they looked. It wasn’t to say that Sansa wasn’t exciting as well, but that she was also  _ intriguing _ .  

Every look, gesture, and word spoken, seemed to come from the opposite direction from which he was expecting. Littlefinger had learned to predict human behavior over the years, finding it essential to outlive the competition. To encounter someone whose actions were not so easily anticipated truly tickled his fancy.

“Are those my clothes?” She doubted, quite hopefully. 

He smiled, “And mine.” 

She blinked at him, her eyes filled with question. He wondered if he intrigued her the way she did him. The idea that he might, delighted him. It was with a proud grin that he explained, “I think it’s important that we share more with each other.” 

She was timid as she clarified, “Share more, what?” 

“In our relationship.” He spoke as if the answer was so obvious he might as well have added,  _ duh _ on the end.  

Sansa took a breath and glanced over her shoulder at the door. Petyr left it open, wanting to give her some assurance that he would not be inappropriate with her, unless she desired it, of course. In which case, an open door in his own house wouldn’t hinder him from plunging himself so deeply in her soft warm flesh, soaking wet and welcoming his stiff intrusion. He let his eyes flutter a moment, inhaling to calm the stir in his pants. She had not yet indicated a willingness, and though it was growing more and more difficult as the days passed, he would make love to her. He wouldn’t allow himself to simply fuck her. A smile quirked the side of his mouth as he added,  _ at least not the first time anyway. _

Before she could work herself up to the idea of using that open door, Petyr broke her silence with a step forward. “Sorting through my closet is something I enjoy. It’s calming to me to view my clothes, and change the order based on various things like texture, season, color. It changes.” 

She turned away from the door, but did not step any closer to the bed. To better illustrate his point, Petyr picked up some suits already on hangers and walked them to his closet, forfeiting his closer proximity to her. He did this a couple of times before she asked, “So, we’re just going to put your clothes away? Don’t you have a maid for this?” 

He appreciated that she questioned him. Not only did it show that she’d taken him seriously when he told her to say whatever she wanted, but it also allowed for more verbal back and forth. He smiled, picking a piece of lint off the shoulder of his blazer, “It isn’t as relaxing when someone else does it.”

She took a step towards the bed and he willed himself not to notice, though the amount of will he had to exert was hard to ignore. Her delicate hand reached out, picking up one of the satin nightgowns he’d gotten her. It was difficult picking out clothes for her, so many things he was certain she’d look perfect in, and so many things that might scare her away. He forced himself to click past garter belts and bustiers in favor of full length night gowns. He told himself that putting up with some modesty now would only ensure more licentiousness later. Her voice broke him away from his fantasy. “Why are my clothes here?”

Petyr walked back from his closet, hanging up two blazers, both of similar color, one with more of a shimmer to it. “Because we’re putting them away too.” He gestured to all the space in his closet, thinking the smell of fresh paint would have been a give away. “I’ve had my closet expanded to better fit a second wardrobe.”

Sansa swallowed, her eyes large as she asked, “Am I to be sleeping in here with you now?”

Everything from the gleam in his eyes to his tongue licking his lips, advertised his desire for her to do just that. Littlefinger couldn’t keep the lust from his voice as he asked hopefully, “Would you like to?”

She stood frozen. The look on her face was more of discomfort than embarrassment, though he would tell himself that it was the later. She was simply too embarrassed by her budding feelings, to cope. To end the growing silence, Petyr granted her a reprieve, “No, you are not. But your clothing will stay here with mine.” 

Air found her lungs again just as her curiosity peaked. “Why?”

Petyr reached forward to touch her hand, but stopped himself, remembering what the books had said. She must be the one to initiate the contact. He pulled his hand away, but was sure she knew what he’d been attempting. Strangely, she looked much less bothered by the prospect of his hand landing on hers than he thought she would. Perhaps she was still swimming in relief over being able to retreat to her bedroom for the night. He hated feeling this way, as if he were someone to be avoided. Usually, he rather liked it. It highlighted how powerful he was, but what good was power if it couldn’t be used to get the things you wanted. He shook his head and reminded himself that Sansa was not a thing. “Because it is important for you to become comfortable coming and going from my bedroom.” 

Her eyes widened at that. Again, she did not retreat, so he continued, “For us to have increased intimacy. Our love story has been stalled, and I think this is a gentle way for you start to realize your feelings.” 

She looked down at the bed and picked up a hanger, sliding the straps of a dress onto it. Petyr took her silence for assent. That was until he felt her frosty fingers ghost over his hand. His head shot up and he cocked an eyebrow at her. Her eyes plead him as she spoke carefully, “But I haven’t yet, have I?”

Littlefinger peered at her, calculating his response, her next words. How far would she tread? How much would he allow? 

Her grip tightened over his and he felt a force to her that he hadn’t expected. “It’s been at least a week, and you’ve been nothing but kind to me.” 

Eight days, but who was counting? Petyr smiled at her acknowledgement. Perhaps he wasn’t the beast she thought he was? 

She soldiered on, “And I still don’t love you. I’m sorry, I don’t. Maybe it’s time to call it quits and let me leave.”

His lips pursed in irritation as her hand felt unreasonably hot on his all of a sudden. Her touch burned, knowing how little she wanted to give it. He would not take her pity. He would not foster her lack of faith in their relationship. He wrenched his hand out from under hers and pulled at his collar. 

She jumped when he suddenly called out, “ROS!” 

Within an instant his maid appeared, her skirt noticeably shorter from the day before. He rolled his eyes at how transparent she was. It was no wonder Sansa wasn’t falling in love with him. How could she with a whore throwing herself at him all the time? Ros grinned, “Yes, sir?” 

“You’re fired.” Littlefinger waved his hand dismissively at her. 

Her jaw dropped and she started to stutter, “B-b-but boss--” 

“Save it.” Petyr gave Sansa a warm look as he spoke to his former maid, “Try as you might, I no longer have need of your services.” 

“But I could help!” Ros’ eyes darted between Petyr and Sansa. “With her, even. I can warm her up for you. Or, or, I could finish her off if you’re too tired to. I mean, come on sir, you know I’m useful!”

“Remember what I said about bodies?” Littlefinger grinned at her. 

Tears poured from her eyes. “No! No! Please!” 

He glanced over at Sansa to gauge her response. It was completely impassive. Neither did she cheer him on, and appreciate what he was doing for her, nor did she recoil and curse him as evil. She merely stood and watched Ros’ display. It pleased him to see his love stand by his side, not fighting his rule. 

Littlefinger raised his voice, “Take her.” 

Oswell and Brune appeared in the doorway, gripping her by either arm and dragging her out. The echo of Ros’ screams lessened as they progressed down the hall and again Petyr and Sansa were met with silence. Wanting so much for his exercise to work, he handed her a hanger and he sorted through a small stack of folded sweaters. 

She walked past him, hanging a couple of dresses on the opposite side of his closet. They worked in the quiet, both watching from the periphery. After a few dresses were hung, all in various colors, cuts, and designers, he confessed, “I can’t figure your pattern.” 

“What do you think it is?” She asked, the hint of a smile tugging at one cheek. 

He stopped and looked more closely, noticing how very little sense her arrangement seemed to make. She had Fendi and Ralph Lauren side by side, lights with darks, and two red dresses sandwiched a blue blouse. It was complete and utter chaos. He reached out to feel the material. “I honestly don’t know. I thought perhaps texture, but you don’t seem to care about whether or not a fabric is smooth or rough.” 

“Length.” She took a step back and pointed to the order. Sure enough, what she’d organized started with most revealing to least. It made sense, now. “How much of myself I want to expose.” 

Petyr noticed the long pants she was wearing, and the three quarter-length sleeves. His girl was covered up alright, but he couldn’t help but notice that eight days ago, those sleeves would have been longer. There was hope in that. He grinned, “I like it. At first it looked like--”

“Anarchy?” 

“Chaos,” he corrected. “There was nothing rebellious about your order, only mysterious.”

“Why did you fire Ros?” 

Her question took him off guard, it being asked well after she’d been taken away. Luckily, he was used to schooling his expression. “Because I thought it would be better for our relationship.” 

Sansa turned to look him in the eye. “Did you not hear what I was trying to tell you?” 

“I heard you, and I understand.” Petyr smiled at her, pleased that she looked so closely at him. “How could you fall in love with me, when a woman I used to fuck wanders the halls, taunting you with her intimate knowledge of my body?” 

She looked stunned.

Petyr took her silence for opportunity. “Besides, whether or not we  _ played around _ , I can’t very well have other women living with me when I’m trying to win you.” 

Sansa opened her mouth to say something and then stopped. She looked away and walked back for the bed and the pile of clothes still on it.

“What is it?” He cocked his head. 

“Nothing.” 

“Not true,” he insisted, and then he reminded, “I told you to speak freely.” 

She picked at the clothes on the bed, grumbling, “If you have to tell me to, then it’s not exactly  _ freely _ .”

Petyr chuckled at that, and the sound of his laugh startled her a little. “I have excellent hearing, sweetling.” 

“I’ll make a note of it,” she eyed him as she walked by, now with knee length skirts and capris. 

He turned quickly, stifling the urge to catch her arm. “Instead, you could just tell me what you were thinking.” 

She reached up, hooking three hangers to the pole at a time. “It was nothing, Petyr.” 

His breath caught. She called him Petyr. He hadn’t reminded her to, she just did, with ease. She touched him and called him by name all in the same visit. He glanced around the room, convinced of the power that the setting contained. Why hadn’t he compelled her to his bedroom earlier?

She must have noticed how severely her use of his name affected him, because she was quick to speak, breaking him from whatever excitement was blossoming inside him. “I just... I guess I just wanted to know why you’re so dead set on me? Why do you feel like you love me? This isn’t coming naturally, is it?” She glanced at the door as she added, “No one would fault you-- _ us _ , for throwing in the towel on this.” 

Petyr’s mind wandered to Catlyn again, her being the only other love he’d ever experienced in his life. She had been work too, and a decidedly fruitless labor at that. He knew that he loved her when he saw her, but with Sansa he knew he loved her when he heard her. As many greeting cards intimated, looks faded, but connections lasted. He and Sansa had connected, it was fleeting, and completely by circumstance, but they had both felt it. She couldn’t deny it, even though she tried. That was okay, he would remember it for the both of them. He would hold true to the connection between them, preserve it, help it grow. 

He’d hung at least four shirts before he answered. “You talked back.” 

“Excuse me?” She asked incredulously. 

Petyr smiled, waving for her to keep sorting. “People don’t talk back to Littlefinger. You did.” 

Rather than leaving his side to hang up more clothes, she stood by him, putting shirts on hangers and setting them down on the bed. He wanted to believe it was so that she didn’t keep walking away from him, knowing the subconscious message it might have sent, that she would keep leaving him. He adored her depth. She asked quietly, “Do they talk back to Petyr?”

He took a deep breath, feeling his heart speed up. “No one talks to Petyr at all.” 

Coming to the bottom of her pile, she swallowed at the sight of all the lingerie he’d bought her. Sansa’s cheeks reddened as she looked down at it, unsure what to do. When he had them deposited there, he thought it would be exciting to catch her in such a way, but now he felt it wrong to trap her so. He turned for the closet and came back with drawers. “You can just put them all in there and we’ll put the drawers back in the wall.”

She looked up at him, indecisively. Whether it was because of his direction or his sudden conscience he wasn’t sure himself. Regardless, she grabbed up handfuls of panties and tossed them in the drawers he’d set on the bed. “Thank you.” 

He nodded, appearing severely enthralled with his ties. A soft chuckle escaped her and he turned quickly, “What is it?” 

She called him out on it, “You don’t like those ties nearly as much as you pretend to.” 

“What?” He furrowed his brow. 

She pointed at his collar. “You’ve never worn a tie once in front of me.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything, I may wear ties all the time outside of the house,” he countered, amusement in his voice. 

She laughed out right, “Sure, you carry a tie in your pocket, to avoid me seeing it, and then in your car your fasten it to yourself to look more business-like.”

His dimples flared, uncontrollably. “Maybe.” 

“Doubtful.” The blue in her eyes was so vibrant he couldn’t look away, caught up in them. 

She sighed, “Just because I stand up to you, doesn’t make me your soulmate. There needs to be more.” 

“There is,” Petyr answered, keeping up with her. He noticed how she often derailed him by letting him feel comfortable before she injected a dose of seriousness. “I admire you. You’re strength, how brazen you can be in the face of someone so much more powerful than you.”

She blinked a few times at that, her lips starting to move to reply. 

He forged ahead, stopping her words before they could form. “You speak to me in a way that no one else does, and it makes me want to change.” 

“Stop killing maids you’re done fucking?” She scoffed. 

Petyr knew she only said that to shock him into taking a step back. That tactic wouldn’t work for him, for the man who loved her. If anything, all it did was make him revere her more. “Be kind,” he insisted. Then he cleared his throat, “To you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, appraising him. 

“I want to be kind to you because of all you’ve been through,” he clarified. “I don’t care about people enough to want to be kind to them for any other purpose than my own.” 

Her voice hardened, “This is for your purpose.” 

“Yes,” he admitted. “But it’s more, too. I want you to heal. I hate how Ramsay raped you.”

And there it was. The words were out there.  _ Ramsay. Rape.  _

Petyr could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. His heart thumped in his chest and he felt sweat gather in his palms. He’d dealt with raped women on a regular basis. He’d toss them a hundred or so and tell them to take the day to recover before they got back to work. That was the business. What care did he have for their emotions? Either they coped and kept earning him money, or they didn’t and he cut his losses. 

Sansa was different. She had a fire in her that he feared would one day extinguish. He refused to let it, and it was because of that refusal that Petyr showed her such tenderness and patience. 

It was not tenderness, however, that she showed him after that comment. Her voice was steel as she ground through her teeth, “He did not rape me.” 

Confusion played across his face. He found her in Ramsay’s ‘love nest.’ Of course he had violated her. There was no point in hiding it or lying about it, Petyr wanted her regardless. He closed his eyes and shook his head, “It’s okay, Sansa. Our love is strong. You don’t need to lie about what he did to you. I accept you anyway.”

“I’m not lying!” She all but yelled. 

“Sansa, please. You don’t have to--”

“He didn’t!” She closed her eyes and pulled her hair back behind her ears.

Petyr lowered his voice, softening the challenge he issued her, “It was two months, Sansa. I doubt he would have restrained himself.” 

Her head shot up, pure hate screwed her face up. “Why? Because you wouldn’t?” 

Indignation raised his voice, “Haven’t I?” 

“Ha!” She scoffed. “A week isn’t exactly the same.” 

“Eight days,” he shot back. 

“Counting?” She growled. 

His hand moved to his groin, completely against his will as he exclaimed, “I can’t help but to!” 

She roared, “He did NOT rape me!” She made for the door, stopping only to look over her shoulder and say, “But if fucking is all you can think of, perhaps I should lock my door at night?” 

He wanted to say, “You do anyway!” But he bit that back, knowing if he said it, she’d only know he’d tried the knob. It wasn’t for the purpose of sex, though he wouldn’t have protested if she offered it in her sleepy state. It was more so to watch her sleep. He’d seen many movies in the romance genre, and they all hinted that it was the appropriate thing to do. 

Petyr sighed, “If you think it’s best.”

Sansa blinked back at him and then threw her hands up and groaned, turning on her heel to storm out of his bedroom. She slammed the door behind her and stomped loudly down the hall. Petyr lifted her drawers and set them back in the wall, eyeing some of her more delicates. It made sense that she would want to lie about Ramsay, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps she wasn’t. He hated how they parted, but knew it was important to let her rage calm on its own before he tried again. 

 


	5. Nail-Biter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!!!  
> A heads up to all readers, Sansa describes her traumatic time with Ramsay.

It had been a few days since Sansa stormed out of his room, and he’d only seen her at meals since. As it was, her look of duress lessened each time, though that was most likely due to the fact that Petyr hadn’t forced her to attend. It was important to him that she come of her own accord, and he was relieved each time she had.

He had foolishly pushed his luck with small talk, only to have minimal responses returned to him. They were often only when she couldn’t find a sound to answer for her. On the fourth,  _ mm _ , he’d decided that even though it was a normal thing for couples to go through, he hated it when they fought. 

One night, after another stilted dinner, Petyr retired to his study to sit with a good book and a nice aged scotch. He’d done so much reading on relationships that he’d neglected his fun reading. If Sansa wasn’t going to talk to him, and he was forced to give her even more space and time, why not indulge himself in a little guilty pleasure reading? It had been so long since he could allow himself such self-indulgence. 

Littlefinger pulled the candy apple red mass market paperback out from under the stack of research materials: romance novels and trauma recovery texts. He stared at the mirror silhouette of man and devil on the cover, running his fingertips over the white text that titled it, _ I, Lucifer _ . He smiled to himself, “Oh, Glen Duncan, you genius. What will Luce get up to today?” 

“Luce?” 

Petyr about jumped out of his chair, startled by the sound of Sansa’s voice. She had never ventured into his study, that he was aware of anyway. No one did. Everyone had a sacred place that they visited meant to be entirely for themselves. His study was his space, and it was off limits. Reading was private,  _ personal _ . It definitely wasn’t a group activity, and to be interrupted while doing so felt like sacrilege.

Littlefinger wouldn’t tolerate violations of his personal space. Typically. However, the curious look on his love’s face, started to melt away his apprehension. He waved his hand, dismissively. “Oh, just a character in a book I’ve been reading.”  

“Do I want to know?” Sansa gave a half smile. 

Did she? He hadn’t considered that she might want to know something about him. Was that really such terrible thing after how strained their relationship had been? The books promoted communal relationships, but he’d always been more comfortable in exchange relationships. Perhaps that was where it needed to start? Quid pro quo. If he wanted to know more about her, he’d have to tell her more about himself.

Petyr never thought he’d be so uncomfortable sharing something as simple as what book he read for pleasure. He shrugged and tossed the book aside, forcing a carelessness that wasn’t truly there. “The devil. He negotiates a last chance at redemption.”

“ _ Negotiates _ ?” She raised her brow. 

He couldn’t fight the dimples that formed. “Yeah. God gives in. Lets him do a test run in the body of a writer who’s trying to commit suicide.” 

“How dark and broody,” she chuckled, setting a tray he hadn’t noticed she was holding on the end table beside them. 

Petyr glanced down. It didn’t contain tea as expected, but instead a nail file, clippers, clear nail polish and other odds and ends. “Sort of. But I find it hilarious. Luce--Lucifer takes the opportunity to use the writer’s name and make some ‘corrections.’ He sets the record straight on what it’s like to be him.” He grinned sinfully, “While engaging in a touch of debauchery in a mortal vessel, of course.”

She looked down at her hands, picking at each other. “Oh, I see.” 

Was it his evident desire that made her suddenly so uncomfortable? Perhaps mention of debauchery? Was it Satan? Was she religious? If she was, that would be a huge hurdle in their relationship. Littlefinger had little need for God, except to maneuver others with their belief in him. A change of subject would save him from venturing down that particular path. He pointed at the tray. “What do you have here?” 

Sansa took a deep breath, preparing herself for something. “A deal.”

That got his interest. “Deal?”

She moved the chair beside him around to the front of him, and he cringed at the change in the room’s feng shui. Being that he never allowed anyone else in there with him, the second chair may have seemed silly, but it was all about symmetry. This change in position ripped the comfort of parallel away, and while it didn’t offer the disjointedness of a perpendicular arrangement, it did offer the feel of an impending head on collision.

Littlefinger closed his eyes and refocused, slowly opening them as he asked, “What kind of deal?” 

It was as if she needed to get every word out for fear that she’d lose her nerve and stop talking completely. Her speech started rapid as she said, “I tell you about--” Then, it slowed and lowered, growing more careful as she said, “ _ Ramsay. _ ” 

He fought the urge to start flipping through his books to see exactly what stage of trauma recovery this was. It would be too obvious. He thought of the cell phone in his pocket and wondered how subtly he could do a quick internet search on the subject. He hadn’t expected such self-disclosure so soon. She held her chin up, finishing, “And what happened.” 

“If?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking. He should have given her the respect to let her offer sit out in the open a moment, as if it was something so valuable he needed to appreciate it. Littlefinger couldn’t though, needing to know all the terms immediately.

“If you don’t harass me with questions about it.”

He flipped her proposition over and over in his head, looking at it from different angles, as one might inspect a valuable coin. “Why no questions?” 

She smoothed her hands over the capris she was wearing as she willed her eyes to meet his. “Because, I can handle what happened. I can stomach repeating it, possibly. I just can’t deal with being doubted. I was there. I lived it,  _ survived _ it. I won’t have someone try to tell me that something other than what happened did.” 

There it was. She wasn’t as upset by the use of her abuser’s name, or the word for what happened to her. It was that she was questioned. His disbelief was his most grievous offense. 

He let his eyes lower to her pouty lips, her petite but proud chin, the prominent clavicle he’d kiss if she allowed, to the pert breasts he’d jerked off to more than a few times alone in his shower. Petyr glanced back up to her eyes quickly, as if she would know the full extent of his thoughts just by catching him mid-leer. He reminded himself to be more sensitive. She was about to discuss in gory detail how forcefully and repeatedly Ramsay penetrated her against her will. As if he really couldn’t put two and two together on his own without such a picture. But that wasn’t the point! The last thing his love needed was for him to fantasize about consensually burying himself inside her with similar force--once they got a good tempo going, anyway.

Against his better judgement, he nodded. “Alright.” 

Sansa swallowed and popped a lollipop in her mouth before she brought her arms up to tie her hair back. He stifled a groan at how her chest puffed out for the brief moment her arms lifted. Did she not realize what she did to him? Perhaps she did and that was why she suddenly cared about her hair. Was this a manipulation? If not, her innocence in the matter both irritated and delighted. If so, her cunning in the matter also both irritated and delighted him as well. Damn, she was perfect. 

She reached over and brought the tray over, speaking down into it as she explained, “It helps me talk if I’m focused on something else.” 

“So you’re going to do your nails?” He wondered. 

Though her head was down, he could see her cheeks lift. She was smiling as she said, “No. I’m doing yours.” 

“Oh?” He smirked, “And exactly what color do you see for me?” 

She chuckled, “I brought clear, Petyr. Just a simple man’s manicure.”

“Boring,” he sighed. 

“Seriously?” She lifted her head. 

“I thought I was more interesting than that,” he teased. 

She readied her instruments, her smile playful as she spoke, “I never took you for the gothic look, a black nail polish wannabe rockstar.” She glanced over at the wicked book to his left, the bright red standing out amongst the stack. “Though, maybe you prefer a more sinister vibe.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief. “I happen to think I could pull off a severe red brilliantly.” 

Sansa laughed at that, and it was music to his ears. “Not tonight, Petyr.”

“Why not?” He pouted, not truly wanting any particular color painting his nails, not even the clear she brought, but wanted to keep the ease between them. 

“Because, I think going bare is more in the spirit of the conversation,” she sighed, looking tired from confession already.

This was going to be hard for her. It was selfish of him to keep distracting her, just because he enjoyed her smile. He gave in and whispered, “ _ Touche _ .”

Her shoulders lifted a little, showing him that she’d heard him. He missed how at ease she’d been seconds before, laughing over various nail polish colors. She was already closing up, steeling herself to whatever she would be confessing. Sansa’s hand came out, silently asking for him to give her his. He stared at it incredulously, even though she’d outright told him that she’d be giving him a manicure, somehow, he’d not expected her to reach for him. The last time she touched him, it was to beg for freedom, and this time it was simply to keep her own hands busy. This was not one lover asking for the comforting hand of the other. 

But, wasn’t it?

She needed to do this so that she could talk to him--bare herself to him.  _ Bare.  _ She used that word specifically in regards to the color she picked for him. Not clear or top coat, or any other words she could have used. Bare. She wanted to strip herself naked for him. 

Oh god, she was wonderful. Even if she was just speaking metaphorically. That’s where it all started didn’t it? For women, at least. They had to fall in love before they let their panties also  _ fall _ . Littlefinger would have gladly fucked her senseless and allowed the feelings to follow, but he understood the importance of letting her have the romance she needed her way. He’d simply mold around her, make his version adapt. By the time the final page of their story turned, they’d both be head over heels for each other, of that he was certain. 

He slipped his already perfectly manicured hand in hers, savoring the feel of her soft palm gripping his. She was warm and smooth and he imagined other places her hand could grip when she clucked her teeth at him. “Nail biter, huh?” 

“I am not,” he scowled. 

She snickered as she took a file to them. “Okay.” 

“I don’t,” he insisted. 

“Mmhmm,” she agreed, rather sarcastically. 

The child in him wanted to snatch his hand away and kick her out of his study for insinuating that he bit his nails. He’d broken himself of the disgusting habit long ago. Lollipops helped with that. He used his free hand to grab one and ripped the wrapper off with his teeth. 

She glanced up, grinning as she bit into her lollipop. He wondered if his panicked and rather barbaric means of opening the candy only proved her point further. He rolled his eyes at himself for becoming so flustered before staring back at the top of her head. Petyr tried not to flinch as she pushed his flesh back from the edges of his nails. She hadn’t said anything more, so he felt the need to fill the silence, “You like getting your nails done?” 

“I was going to go to school for it--when I graduated,” she answered through her concentration. 

_ Graduated? _ College? Did cosmetology require a Master’s degree now? Unlikely. “How old are you?” He asked, sucking harder on the lollipop in his mouth. 

“Seventeen.”

“You are not.” She had to be lying. Had to be. There was no way a teenager would be as mature as she was.

“No,” she sighed. 

He breathed easy and smiled, “Then how old? I assure you, age won’t deter me.” He wanted to her to rest easy, knowing that even if she was as old as her mid-twenties, he’d still consider himself a lucky man to be with her.

She looked up at him. After a moment of staring at him she groaned, “Okay, fine.  _ Sixteen _ .” 

He blinked to keep his eyes from bulging. Shit. Fuck. Shit. She was a kid. A minor. Illegal in all senses of the word. Damn it all to hell and back. He viciously crunched the candy off the stick and tossed it aside.

She blushed and bit her lip, and it suddenly didn’t matter. What was age but a number? Littlefinger tongued the lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other. She looked fully developed, and it wasn’t as if she was inexperienced. Granted they were poor experiences, but Petyr was confident in his ability to give her better ones. 

He told himself that legalities had been but a formality to him for a long time. Why would this be any different? She wasn’t a crate full of crack or a shipment of AKs. What did the cops care? What did he care? She was the love of his life. The fact that she was so young had startled him at first, but didn’t matter in the long run. 

“You speak much older than your age,” Petyr challenged, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Thank you.” She didn’t take the bait, pulling the emory block out. Or perhaps in her youth she thought it was a compliment? He gazed down at her and decided to let it be.  

After a couple of minutes of silence she cleared her throat and began, “I told you he didn’t rape me, because he didn’t.” 

“But--”

“I said no questions, Petyr,” she reminded. 

After a couple of minutes passed, her delicate fingers gripping each one of his in turn, she attempted to speak again. “He didn’t rape me in the strict sense of the word, because he was  _ saving _ me.”

Saving her? For two months?

She took a dry washcloth to his hands, wiping away the dust his filed nails created. At the salon it would have been a big fluffy brush, but he assumed the washcloth was the best she could drum up for an impromptu manicure. He made a mental note to buy all the proper materials for her. 

In the silence that he forced himself to allow, she found the courage to continue, never looking up at him. “He was saving me for his birthday because he said that v--” Her voice caught and he knew she was tearing up. He brought his free hand up to her face and she turned away. She took a deep breath and then blurted, “ _ Virgins _ are hard to come by.”

His hand dropped in his lap. Virgin? No. Not possible. He let his eyes trail over the curvy outline of her. Pasta nights had been doing her body good. She simply was too beautiful of a flower not to have been plucked before, as many times as biology would allow. She was only sixteen, though many sixteen year olds were quite experienced. He was about to ask about her boyfriend when she carried on, “He abused me, yes. Beat me, cut me, humiliated me. He jacked off on me a lot, usually on the cuts he created. He would make me suck his cock and punched me of I couldn’t get him off. He’d also punch me if I could. I was either a stupid useless virgin in need of an education or a dirty slut in need of punishment. Either way, his knuckles were always the answer with him.” 

Words escaped him. Her head didn’t move as she held his hand in front of her, unwilling to fully process the truth in her words spoken aloud. It was doubtful that she’d ever said them to anyone else before. Who else had she encountered but his loyal staff? The first layer of clear coat, felt a cool contrast to the heat her fingertips nurtured. 

“You think he raped me, but he didn’t. He never shoved his crooked cock inside.” Petyr could hear her teeth grind as she moved from his index finger to his thumb, tapping his hand to indicate his need to turn it. 

He wanted to point out that she was violated regardless, but he figured she knew that. She wouldn’t need the distraction of her work if she didn’t on some level get that she was still sexually abused. Forced oral sex would count as rape as well, but he felt the argument die in his mouth. Being right stopped being important.

Her laugh was sick as she admitted, “In fact, he was limp most of the time.” 

Sansa brought the brush to his other hand, this time going with the thumb first. “He would cut me up just to stay hard while he fucked another girl beside me.” 

Petyr swallowed the lump in his throat as he pictured the woman of his dreams tied down, getting carved up while Ramsay got off. A small part of him was thankful that it wasn’t inside his love, another part of him didn’t care either way. The damage to her psychi had been done, and he wasn’t sure how she could come back from something like that. 

There were so many guides on sexual abuse in the form of penetration and what that single act meant to a person. There wasn’t much on the _ everything-but  _ scenario she described. He felt something wet on his fingers and realized she had begun to cry. The brush started to shake on his nail from the tremor in her hand. 

“Sansa?” 

She shook her head, too emotional to speak. Her message was clear enough:  _ No questions, Petyr. _

He felt so helpless, sitting there with her bent over in front of him, silently crying over whatever horrific memory she was reliving. Petyr never fooled himself into believing he was any sort of prince charming, but he knew he was better than this. He was not some man who sat idly by while the woman he loved suffered months of torture over and over again. 

Acting entirely on instinct, he took his hands from hers and leaned forward. He had her caught up in his arms before he had thought to second guess himself and pulled her into his lap. He must have surprised her too, because she didn’t voice a word of protest or wriggle up any fight. She wasn’t heavy, but instead warm and solid in his lap. This was no fantasy, but a living dream. He held his love in his arms, her head against his shoulder as he rest his chin on the top of her head. 

She sobbed unrestrained into him, salting the twill fabric of his collar. It was messy and uncomfortable. He’d never held another person before, not like that. He’d never been so close to such raw emotion, let alone felt it turn into him, looking for him to provide--what, he didn’t know. Was he meant to rub her back and promise vengeance against her abuser? The man was already dead. Maybe he should have assured her that she was still beautiful and perfect and unmarred from her time in Ramsay’s Rape Room? That wasn’t exactly true though, was it? She was still beautiful but she was far from unmarred. 

When her crying quieted and her body stopped quivering, she started to stiffen. It was as if she only then realized where she was, in Littlefinger’s lap. She lifted her head slowly, her eyes wide as she registred his face. He licked his lips, nose to nose with her, seeing how closely her face hovered above his. It would be nothing to reach forward, close the gap between them, but the stack of books in his periphery called to him. He swallowed, caught in her gaze as he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have picked you up like that. It’s just that you were upset and it’s all I knew to do.” 

She blinked, whatever spell between them broken as she slowly rose from him. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

He stood quickly, “Are you sure?” 

She gave him a half-hearted smile and nodded, bending to pick up the instruments that had fallen. “Yes, it’s okay. He--um, he never touched me like that. So, you know, it doesn’t feel the same.” 

He bent down, helping her gather everything to put back on the tray. Unsure of what to say, he simply nodded, feeling more inadequate than he’d ever felt in his life. His thoughts were interrupted when her hand suddenly darted out, grabbing his as she groaned, “Your nails are all smudged!” 

“It’s alright,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say and he truly wanted things to be. 

“No, it’s not,” she shook her head. “Please stop looking at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

She drew a breath and pulled her shoulders back. “Like I’m a victim.” 

“Weren’t you?” He countered because it was easier to bat things back and forth than to hold onto them and face them.  

She lifted her chin with conviction. “Not anymore.”

He knew he shouldn’t point it out. It was counter productive to say the least. What good would it do anyone? It would only disempower her and push her further away from him, and he knew it. He absolutely knew it, but he couldn’t stop it. The know-it-all, smartass in him would not be stifled. He glanced at the four walls around them as he asked, “Not even given certain circumstances?” 

Her jaw tightened as she insisted, “ _ No _ .”

Well now, that was a shocking new development. She didn’t feel victimized staying in his home against her will? He wondered if she’d actually begun to enjoy being with him to some degree. All of her needs were met, and her preferences indulged. She was cherished there, and all she had to give up was the ability to come and go freely. A small price to pay, really. 

She pursed her lips a moment and then her shoulders relaxed, “I should probably go.” Sansa gave him a polite smile,”I’ll leave you to your book.” 

His palms sweat and his heart raced as excitement flushed his face. Could she really be starting to accept things? Accept him? Petyr reached forward, wanting to stop her, tell her she didn’t have to leave. It was too late, she’d already turned away and was out the door before he could respond. 

He let himself fall back, plopping in his chair as he considered their encounter. It wasn’t graceful on his part, but after the rollercoaster of emotions he’d experienced, he could do little else but plop. 

His hand reached for his book absently, and he opened it to the place last held. His eyes skimmed the words, but he only saw Sansa’s brilliant blue eyes and glossy copper locks, tied back in a hasty ponytail. He lost the message of the text, caught up in the nightmare of her story and promise of her declaration and determined expression.

She was so strong, so brave. Never backing down, she stood fierce against the memories, her captivity, her trauma. At only sixteen she was already such a powerful force to be reckoned with, a perfect match to him in every way. He would be remiss if he didn’t take note of how fortunate it was that she’d been preserved for him. When she was ready, he would hold her close as he had just done, and usher her into her womanhood.

He popped another lolli in his mouth suggestively twirled his tongue around it. There was no better feeling in the world than Sana sitting in his lap, burying her face in his shoulder. She held his hands and shared her deepest darkest truths with him. He held her close after she promised him her purity. The stars were definitely aligning. 

 


	6. This Might Sting

The day would have felt longer if he hadn’t been coming home to his love. He knew this from experience, working hard long past quitting time, only to return to a mostly empty home. Sometimes the lure of his private study or a perfectly compliant Ros, eased the strain of having to manage everything. Petyr had always been comfortable delegating, but truly struggled with waiting for someone to successfully complete the tasks once given, inevitably feeling the need to swoop in and fix everything. 

All the workshops he attended and pamphlets he’d collected explained that effective leadership required a degree of trust in the staff to complete the tasks assigned. He was able to improve upon himself in multiple areas, but continued to feel quite stuck in that one, rooted to his need to be involved. 

He’d told Sansa about it once, in vague terms and she concurred with the literature, telling him he shouldn’t be a “helicopter parent.” He agreed to make her smile, and then later he looked up what she was referring to. She wasn’t wrong, even if her assessment was made based on what she’d learned in her high school guidance class. He stifled a snort at that. When he was in high school, guidance counselors stayed in their offices and focused on planning the smart kids’ futures through various college applications and test prep courses. They did not waste taxpayer money on an hour class every other day to discuss feelings. Any class that did not require a textbook, but instead an ‘open mind,’ was only a diversion from real learning. 

On the other hand, he had enjoyed the small smile that played on her lips as she spoke with some authority on the matter. She’d been curled up in his armchair at the time, when he sat beside her with a particularly tired look in his eye. Would she have the care to notice how exhausted he was, if she had not had the class? Perhaps empathy truly could be taught? One look at his own book collection only proved how severely he hoped so. Maybe he would have done well with a class like that when he was in school, after all? 

She was doing that a lot lately, changing his mind. Petyr never had any difficulty making his mind up, strong in his convictions. Yet, her presence had him questioning everything. At first it was frustrating, in that he couldn’t predict what would disappoint or displease. As the days passed, and the conversations continued, he was feeling more and more at ease with the way in which she affected him, always coming at things from a different angle. 

Her opinion always interested him and that fueled his energy, keeping him awake, the lure of a comfy bed becoming less and less appealing. A couple of very late nights in his study, he was almost certain she may follow him back to his room, even just to sleep. She never had, but her heavy lidded eyes and soft smiles, gave him hope that one day she would. The idea of laying next to her warm body and soft skin, nose nestled in the crook of her neck as they slept, was nothing short of heaven. He’d duct tape his boner down if need be, save her the offense of it, and prove all he wanted was to hold her, to have her. 

It was with a similar thought in mind that he carried his tired body through the backdoor, stopping immediately once he saw her sitting in the breakfast nook. He knew she prefered using it over his large dining table, so it shouldn’t have been such a surprise to see her there, but it was all the same. She had her earbuds in and was perched on her elbows over the table, deeply engrossed in the magazine in front of her. Her knees rest on the bench, the backs of her thighs exposed with the high cut of the shorts she wore. All thoughts of innocent fully-clothed snuggling dissipated, as carnal desire rushed into him, stirring the blood hot in his body. 

She shifted, her ass wiggling slightly as she did. Red hair spilled over her shoulder, further obstructing her view of anything but the magazine she focused on. He was thankful she couldn’t see him salivating like a dog. Completely unaware of his presence, she bobbed her head to the music he wished he could hear too and reached across the table, her shirt riding up. The flesh toned hourglass he’d pictured a thousand times, teased him from the gap between shirt and shorts. 

Fuck if he wasn’t thirsty for her. 

He’d saved her--in all senses of the word. He’d rescued her from Ramsay, protected her from her own urge to run away from their love, and preserved her virginity. As painful as it had been to wait so long, he reminded himself that it was for the greater good. He could make her his, but the bond would only be so strong. Once she came around and gave herself to him of her own volition, he would feel confident in his claim of her, having been the only man to ever explore her so intimately. The bond would be unbreakable. She was still so young, but perhaps that was necessary? She would grow with him, run with him, be the day to his night. Having his other half realized, the emptiness within finally filled, was worth the frost bitten balls he suffered from the ice cold water spouted from the shower head he held to himself.  

There was a slight smacking and cracking sound coming from her direction. Petyr was curious to find out what it was, but didn’t dare relinquish his perfect observation point. He’d heard it a couple of times before her head tilted and he watched her run her tongue over one of the lemon lollipops he’d gotten for her. His hand pressed against the front of his pants as he watched her virtuous tongue trace the outline of the lollipop before covering it with her mouth again and again. Petyr remembered how she sucked on the lollipop as she told him about her traumatic experiences with Ramsay, and decided it was only anxiety that make her bite straight to the stick. Apparently, when she was more comfortable, she was willing to lick a bit longer.

He throbbed at the way she worked the lollipop in her grip, flipping through the latest fashions. Petyr knew he should be grateful for the opportunity to gape at her as long as he had, but instead he felt irritated when he’d silently shifted and she looked up. He hadn’t made a sound, just a slight movement in her periphery. 

Sansa picked herself up off her elbows, her knees still on the bench as she smiled over her shoulder, “You’re home.” 

She started calling it  _ home _ a few days prior and he took such pleasure in it, that he prayed she’d always refer to it as such. “I am,” he grinned, stepping out of the shadows. 

“I was just clothes shopping.” She waved at the magazine behind her. 

Petyr had discovered that Sansa preferred to pick out her own clothing. Because he didn’t feel comfortable risking a shopping trip--so many stores for her to hide in, he compromised on catalogues. She smiled when he did, and it touched her eyes, if only for a moment. He wasn’t sure if she was growing to accept her circumstances--or him, but he appreciated how much more at ease she seemed. 

At first, her knock on his bedroom door each morning and evening was light, timid. He would wait until he was properly dressed and out of bed before he called her in, taking care and consideration for her own modesty. She would scurry in, averting her gaze from him as she made for the closet. He’d barely get a word in edgewise before she was hurrying past him with her clothes bundled up in her arms to take to the bathroom. A couple of times out of frustration, he considered lying naked on his bed before calling her in, just to see what she would do. 

But he didn’t, knowing it would undo all the work he’d put into their relationship. Still, he enjoyed dreaming of her swayed by his naked form, her virgin curiosity drawing her into his bed. It was a nice thought, but if he ever wanted it to be anything more, he had to keep control of himself. So, the showerhead it was. 

“Anything catching your eye?” He asked, careful in his steps forward, willing his erection to subside. 

“Lots of things,” she laughed. “I’m trying to prioritize.”

“Prioritize?” He smiled. 

Sansa started to stand up, robbing him of his delicious view. “Well, I can’t get them _ all _ .” 

“Why not?” Petyr shrugged. “Who said?” 

She scoffed through her smile. “Me.”

His grin grew as he approached, “Well, that’s not up to you.” He reached past her, flipping some pages in the magazine as he spoke, “I’m buying, so I decide, don’t I?” 

She crossed her arms, “You said I could pick what I liked.” There was a distinct note of betrayal in her voice as she insisted, “That you wouldn’t dress me up however you wanted.”

His heart sank. No. He hadn’t meant it like that. He swallowed as he nodded his head, “You can pick, Sweetling.” 

Her eyes studied the kitchen tile, avoiding his, avoiding  _ him _ . 

“I simply meant that I decided how much. One outfit or twenty. That’s all.” It killed him not to scoop her up and show her his sincerity with some well placed kisses and caresses. 

She softened, “Oh.” 

Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face. Her smile was yet again warm and welcoming, and he felt he would burst from the confines of his body at the sight of it. He focused on her lips, so smooth and bittersweet, begging to be both kissed and left alone. Petyr ached to treat them right, show her the pleasure they could bring. Erase the conflict, and nurture the desire.

Suddenly, she exclaimed, “Petyr!” 

He looked back at her, puzzled, clearly missing something. 

“You’re bleeding!” Her fingers fearlessly reaching for his hairline. She retracted her hand to show him the blood she’d been so affected by. 

He touched his own fingers to his scalp. He hadn’t remembered being injured, but that didn’t  mean it wasn’t a possibility. As he stared at his own fingertips, trying to retrace the events of the night, she crashed into him. Petyr blinked, surprised by the full frontal contact of her body plastered to his. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, and burrowed her face into him. 

Slowly, and with as much restraint as he could muster, he allowed one palm to stroke her back. He was mindful to stop well before the top of her perfectly rounded ass. Now was definitely not the time. “I’m okay,” he promised. 

“No, you’re hurt,” she mumbled into his neck. 

This was a pivotal moment in their relationship. He knew it. Fuck-buddies didn’t care if he was hurt. Friends might, but would do nothing other than offer their sympathy. His woman, on the other hand, would tend to him. He gave the side of her head a peck of a kiss. It was more of a question than he wanted, but he couldn’t hide the vulnerability in his voice as he offered, “You can patch me up, if you like.”

She pulled from him, her bright blue eyes meeting his. “Seriously?” 

The words caught in his throat. He nodded back, refusing to blink for fear that when he opened his eyes again, she’d look away. 

Her hand reached for his, so light and delicate. She kept glancing over her shoulder as she lead him to the bathroom, as if she was worried he’d escape her grip. He bit back a smile, knowing the feeling all too well. 

She sat him on the toilet as she reached in his medicine cabinet, pulling alcohol and cotton balls out. He watched her line the sink with all the tools she felt necessary to cure him, excitement blossoming inside. His woman was taking care of him. 

When she approached with an alcohol soaked cotton ball, she leaned forward, awkward in the motion. Petyr looked down, seeing her knees touch his, and instantly spread his legs, letting her step closer. She gave a shy smile, “Thanks.” 

He anchored his hands on his knees tightly, refusing to let them rest on her hips, or better still, her ass. She was so close, so frustratingly close. It would be too easy to give in, and impossibly hard to fight it. He nodded back to her, wearing a goofy grin he couldn’t contain, all his energy focused on controlling his hands. 

The cotton ball hovered closer to his head and she bit her lip. “This is gonna hurt.” 

It couldn’t have hurt any worse than the scrape of his zipper fiercely imposing on his manhood. “It’s fine. Really.” 

She nodded nervously as she continued. The feel of the cold swab against his flesh did little to ground him in reality, too caught up in the perky breasts that hung in front of him and the concerned face that hovered over his. He felt the cotton ball wipe gently over him a few times before she leaned in further, wiping more vigorously. 

“Something wrong?” 

Sansa reared back and threw the cotton ball in the trash beside them, spitting out, “It’s not your blood!” 

That actually made much more sense to him, as he didn’t remember being injured. The other guy, however... 

“Sansa, wait!” He looked up at her. 

“For what?” She scowled. “For you to explain that you beat someone bloody, or worse,  _ killed _ them?” 

He paused, letting her work through her emotions. She had been a victim. Of course she would view him as the enemy.

“How could you think that I’d ever love you?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Okay, now that hurt. Petyr gripped the sink beside him, rising slowly. She took a step back, allowing him to stand. Exasperated with the task of trying to balance his knight in shining armour duties and his infamous crime lord responsibilities, he started to explain, “Sansa--”

“You’re  _ Littlefinger _ ,” she closed her eyes and shook her head, as if that was reason enough. “We can play house all we want, but you’re Littlefinger. You lie, steal, murder.” She swallowed the lump in her throat as she said, “You’re the bad guy.” 

He reached forward, touching his fingers to her cheek. “Not with you.” 

She crossed her arms and scoffed through bleary eyes, “ _ Doubt it _ .” 

He would be offended by how little she thought of him, if he hadn’t noticed the fact that she hadn’t turned tail and run. She stood before him, however unimpressed, also unmoving. She hadn’t even turned her face from him, and he was sure she would have done at least that. Taking some liberty in the situation, he dragged his digits over her jaw, “Why?” 

She huffed.

“Why don’t you believe me?” His eyes trailed down the pout of her lips, to the determined chin that stuck out proudly, right down the neck that fluttered her pulse. He stared at the collarbone that peeked out from her shirt as he asked, “Is it because I’ve treated you so poorly?” 

Sansa looked away, wavering. “I’m not saying that.” 

God, didn’t he want to let his fingers slide down her throat, and further still. He couldn’t. It would only prove whatever point she was trying to make. Instead, he hooked his thumb up over her chin, forcing his gaze back to her eyes. His voice softened, “I can leave it out there.”

She stared back at him, curiosity twisting and turning her features, asking him how he proposed to do that without words. 

He leaned into her further, his heavy-lidded eyes coaxing hers to follow their lead. When they started to flutter, he hovered his lips over hers, as he soothed, “I can be Littlefinger to the world, and Petyr to you.” 

Her eyes closed, a faint moan escaping. He grinned at how responsive she was, considering he’d yet to touch her. The mere proximity of his lips to hers had brought this reaction about. Was that the sound of acceptance, or more importantly,  _ consent _ ? He wasn’t sure. He paused trying to decide, when her palm landed on his chest and his heart jolted at the contact. Her hot breath against his lips, encouraging such closeness, was permission enough. 

It was so faint at first, like the tickle of butterfly wings flitting against his lips. A tentative gesture, at best, both still determining whether or not it was the next step to take. It lasted too long for something so non-committal, and she must have realized that because she tilted her head and opened to him, her hand sliding from his chest to grip his shoulder. 

He wrapped an arm around her waist at that, and deepen his affection for her. Goosebumps covered his flesh as he rejoiced in the warmth and wetness of her mouth on his, giving and taking a mutual pleasure.

It was a kiss, something he’d experienced a thousand times in his life, and yet it felt like the very first time. Or, rather, how the very first time  _ should _ have felt. It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. After all these years, all the women, a kiss was as good as a handshake, mundane and a means to an end, the first base one had to run though to reach home. 

This was not that at all, however. It was an experience all in its own and he could feel sustained from it for much longer than he’d like to. Her tongue rubbed against his and he shivered, praying she would never realize how little he needed her to give. 

Feeling her reciprocate, he moved his hand from her face to run down her back and meet his other arm. It would take willpower to keep his hands from sinking lower, but he would manage it. This was concentrated bliss and he refused to fuck it up for himself. 

The slight change in movement must have broken whatever spell she was under because she pulled from him. It was beyond difficult not to chase her lips, but he didn’t, forcing himself to take pleasure in the sight of her. A deep blush colored her cheeks, her eyelids still heavy, as her wet lips made the perfect little o. 

Petyr smiled proudly. If she had truly had a boyfriend, he’d certainly never kissed her like that before. Useless and easily forgotten. He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip as he watched her recover, his eyes alight with pure unadulterated swagger. 

He could tell it was a bit too much for her, the level of lust he revealed. She brought a hand to her cheek and blushed harder, looking away quickly. “Um, I should…” Her voice faltered as she pulled from his arms. “I should, uh…” 

Petyr felt the warmth and solidity of her body leaving him. “It’s alright, Sansa,” he tried to assure her. It was a funny thing, trying to convince her that everything was alright and that nothing had to change, when he himself wondered if that was the case. Would they go back to how things were, late night chats and silly games? Perhaps things would return to how they were before even that, self-isolation and borderline hostile monosyllabic responses hurled from behind the safety of the walls she’s constructed around her heart. 

She stepped towards the door, not saying one way or the other. “I’m a…” She felt for the knob behind her, turning it as she gave an awkward smile. “I’m glad you’re not hurt.” 

Before he could say a word, the door shut behind her, and he was left staring at a small arsenal of first aid supplies he wouldn’t be needing and an empty bathroom that he’d forever cherish as the location of their first kiss. His tongue ran over his lips as he smiled to himself, overjoyed to taste a lemon flavored lollipop that he hadn’t been eating. 


	7. Groundbreaking

She never would have known, if she’d just stayed in her room like any other night. It was well past a respectable hour, even further past her typical time of sleep. He had no idea what possessed her to creep downstairs unannounced and gently push the door to his study open.

He assumed her vantage point would allow her the perfect view of him leaning on his desk, hands in his pocket as he asked the man in the chair some questions. That alone would not account for the horrified look on her face as she stood frozen in the door. She would have had to also see Brune’s blood soaked fists as he loomed over the man. Perhaps the smell of Oswell heating his knife with a lighter in a well-versed intimidation tactic, had set off something internally for her. Had she been able to see the deep purpling on the man’s swollen face? 

It was work--that was all. 

Sometimes, he had to bring it home. How different was it from a lawyer bringing casefiles home? Or a teacher grading papers on their couch over a glass of wine?

It wasn’t, damn it. 

And yet, the way she gaped at him, it was as if she had come face to face with a blood-thirsty predator, tearing the prey before him limb from limb. Every muscle in her body grew taut, an obvious shake to her legs. There was no mistaking it; she was preparing to flee.

The man before him coughed up another tooth. The garbled sound he made as he fought to breathe through the blood that filled his lungs, was unlike that of a racing pistol firing, yet it seemed to have the same effect. One second she was in front of him, staring back with a mixture of bewilderment and betrayal, and the next she was a flash of red flying by. 

Littlefinger didn’t run--hadn’t since the time when he absolutely had to. It was beneath him, such a show of weakness. And yet there he was, his Saint Crispins loudly clapping down on the hardwood of his study and sliding on the marble of the hall. His heart thumped loudly in his ears as he stood in the corridor, looking at all the possible entrances and exits she might have chosen. 

It could have been any of them. Any single one of the five doors that surrounded him. Part of him thought she’d go for the kitchen, nestle into the nook for comfort. Another part of him wondered if she’d make for the stairs, running to her room, locking the door behind her. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? Square one. Though with the way she looked at him, as if he was so foreign and frightening, she may have been driven enough to make for the back door and try the fence. Dear god, he hoped she didn’t try the fence. 

The day before, he would have known which door. That was before their kiss. She scurried to bed after that, and was barely available the rest of the day. He tried not to take offense to it, knowing she was wrestling with her feelings for him. Supper was quiet and overly cordial, and then she was off to bed. 

They’d been so close.  _ She _ had been so close. He kissed her and she kissed him back! She liked it, he knew she did. She smiled. There was no way that she didn’t enjoy it. Her virgin modesty made her hide herself away from him, and his own need to keep the ground he’d gained forced him to allow it. Frustration built in him, piling higher with each polite smile and elongated silence. When she went to bed he saw an opportunity for release and took it, putting all his restless energy into work. Was that really so bad?

Apparently so. 

The alarm system would have gone off by then if she had made for an exit. Feeling a touch of alleviation from that realization, Petyr stared at the moulding of each archway, wondering where she might feel the safest. He would have heard her scurry up the stairs, so she couldn’t have run to bed. He felt another small wave of relief wash over him. That left only three more doors to explore.

Petyr held his breath as he pushed the door to the kitchen open and scanned the room quickly, paying extra attention to the nook. She was not there. 

He considered tossing a coin for the last two doors, but didn’t have the patience for his own antics in the moment. Petyr chose the door to his right because he was left handed and believed in equality. When he saw her sitting on the couch, arms wrapped protectively around her legs, his odd sense of reasoning had worked to his favor. 

She scowled at him, hugging herself tighter. “Go away.” 

“I just got here,” he argued, deciding not to mention the short burst of cardio he mildly resented. As he stepped closer, he noticed a slight tremble to her and moved swiftly to sit beside her, reaching to hold her. 

Sansa reared back, her face a mixture of anger and fear. “What are you doing?”

He made himself smile, reaching once more. “You’re upset. Naturally, I’m comforting you.” 

“No, you’re not,” she growled, backing up against the arm of the couch. “Just stay away.”

Petyr was about to stand up and leave, not wanting to push her limits. With one hand on the arm of the couch, he started to haul himself up, before he stopped. He’d been looking at her pursed lips when he remembered the lemony taste of them. “No.”

“Excuse me?” She stared back incredulous, her jaw dropped and her brow furrowed. He didn’t doubt her surprise. He’d been so respectful of her space, her need to take things slowly on her journey to discover the love of her life, as he had her. For him to not simply agree and vacate, was quite the surprise. 

“We’ve come too far in our relationship to push each other away whenever things become challenging,” he replied simply.

“ _ Challenging? _ ” She gaped at him, “Are you mental?” 

“Probably,” he shrugged. “But that’s hardly the point. What I’m trying to tell you is that I’ve actually become quite the authority on love and acceptance. And the research says that we need to stand together now more than ever.” Petyr ignored her dumbfounded gaze, carrying on with the conviction of a man determined to break some ground in their relationship. “I think I need to hold you, and you need to let me.” 

“Is that a threat?” She quipped, quickly. 

God, he loved her wit. “No, it’s an appeal. Please, let me hold you.”

She silently appraised him, making no commitment one way or the other.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised. 

She snorted, letting go of her legs. “You’re Littlefinger. You hurt everybody.”  

More than a little disappointed that she didn’t immediately fall into his arms, he pointed out, “Not you. I never have--never would.”

Sansa’s legs dropped, her feet touching the floor as she smoothed her hands over her bathrobe. She sighed and blinked her eyes a few times, as if trying to contain tears he hadn’t seen.

He could tell she was more upset than just scared. “Tell me, Sansa. Whatever it is, tell me.” 

She sighed again, this time more tremulous. “You said that you’d be someone different at home.”

Home. 

She was still calling it home! He tried not to let his excitement show, determined to treat what she was telling him as seriously as she was. He drew a deep breath, “You are right. I take full responsibility.” He looked away for a moment as he admitted further, “You were supposed to be sleeping.”

Again he was met with silence. There was a stir of confusion beneath the hard-set expression she gave him. He’d admitted fault, and that always took people off guard. He’d also just placed some of the responsibility on her, blaming her for not being asleep as she should have been. She wouldn’t know which way to feel, and he knew it.

It was in the cloud of dissonance that he reached out again. He softened his voice and his eyes to match as he asked, “May I hold your hand?” 

She alternated her gaze between his outstretched palm and the smooth smile he offered. He reminded her, “I have never hurt you.” Her head hung at that and her fingers twitched in her lap. He added, “And I  _ never _ will.” Not only would he not harm her, but he knew he couldn’t even if he ever wanted to. She was his love, entirely beyond reproach.

Slowly, her hand lifted from her leg, and suspended above his for longer than was natural. Stuck in a state of indecision, she held out as long as she could before finally giving in and letting it land in his. 

He didn’t allow their hands to idle long before rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles, curbing his urge to bring them to his lips. If anyone had asked him a little over a month ago whether or not he would be worshiping a woman so, he’d have laughed at them. Littlefinger worshiped no one, especially not someone he got off in, no matter how attractive. He had a very distinct pattern of fucking for pleasure and then moving on--for pleasure. The idea of one woman was silly. Furthermore, the idea that he would force himself to love her at her own pace was nothing short of ludicrous.

Though, here he was, perched on the edge of his own couch massaging her hand, vying for more. She was timid, unsure. That was as clear as day, and yet it was strangely unexpected. Petyr fell in love with her for her outspokenness. Her blunt statements interested him and the idea that she was brassy enough to make them in the first place excited him. Add to that, the fact that the girl was head-to-toe beautiful. Petyr didn’t stand a chance in the love department; she was such a turn on. 

He needed to win her over, discover some similar ground. He worked her hand as he admitted, “I do hurt people.” 

She stared back at him, seemingly surprised by his admission. 

“I do hurt people,” he repeated, dragging both of his thumbs over her hand from knuckle to wrist. “People who don’t pay.” He gripped her wrist as he pressed past it. “People who don’t work.”   

Her interrogative gaze would not relent. Her avid study of him only fueled his belief that she returned his love, at least deep down. Petyr noticed her shoulders start to drop, relaxing a bit as he worked her hand. He took that as a signal to move to her arm, pressing and rubbing the length of her forearm as he spoke, “Who work for the wrong people.”

Sansa’s eyes started to close, and her neck seemed to relax as he gripped her forearm, working his way up to her shoulder. Whatever reservation she had, seemed to fade away as he gripped her shoulder, digging both his thumbs into the knotted muscle. “Who hurt the ones I love.” 

She opened her eyes, raising an eyebrow in question at that. Petyr pretended not to notice her sudden attention, refusing to relinquish his hold of her. Sansa was too smart for his play at dumb. “Ramsay?” 

Petyr didn’t reply, adding his other hand to the mix as he moved to her neck. She wouldn’t take his silence for response, and asked with a touch more determination, “Was that guy connected with Ramsay?” 

“Yes,” he admitted. There was no point in lying. Littlefinger killed Ramsay and the men he had on hand the night Sansa was freed from his “Love Nest.” That did not mean that Ramsay didn’t have other men loyal to him and his family walking the world. 

Petyr was resentful of Ramsay, dead as he may be. The corpse was preventing Petyr from not only consummating his love for Sansa, but allowing her to recognize her love for him. Any way he could get back at that skin-flaying son-of-a-shit, he would. Hunting down men loosely associated with Ramsay was the least Littlefinger could do to let off a little steam. 

Without much thought, he nudged Sansa so that her back was to him, rubbing her neck and shoulders as easily as if he hadn’t had to coerce her to that position. 

Her voice was heavy as she asked, “What quarrel do you have with him?” 

“I’m pretty sure that I’ve made that clear,” he laughed.

She sighed, “Me?” 

There was no point in lying. “Of course.” Petyr leaned in, “I hate what happened to you.” 

“Ramsay’s dead. There is no more opportunity for revenge,” she looked away as she spoke. 

Petyr let his thumbs slip under the neckline of her shirt to keep contact with the flesh he kneaded. “If you are still hurt--and you are, then there is always room for revenge.” 

Her muscles relaxed noticeably at that and he felt his own dimples flare at how comfortable she became after he promised the possibility of revenge. There was no refuting her place as his soulmate. Petyr leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I would kill generations of Boltons for what he did to you--and what he  _ meant to do _ to you.”

She shivered involuntarily at his words hot in her ear. Her physiological response was all the encouragement that his growing erection needed to press painfully against the confines of his pants. He stifled a groan as he massaged her, taking joy in the feel of her skin smooth beneath his digits. Sansa slowly turned to face him, much to his surprise. She caught one of his hands in hers as she stared back at him, expectantly. 

Petyr didn’t know what she was waiting for, what it was she wanted from him. He was about to ask her, when she leaned into him, and closed her eyes. One look at her pouty lips, imploring his to meet them, was all it took for him to dive forward. He had wanted nothing more than to feel her kiss again. The day had been torturously long, wondering how she felt about the night before, whether or not she’d allow such intimacy again. Discovering that she would, he brought his hands up to cradle her head, supporting her as he poured his affection through the conduit of their lips. 

She didn’t struggle, didn’t push away or reject. Though he was tempted to deepen it, he didn’t, holding back. It was a joyous enough thing that she was allowing his kiss for a second time. It promised her feelings for him. 

Petyr began to lean back slowly, letting his back rest against the arm of the couch. His hands moved down her back, wrapping around her. Sansa simply melted, as if completely boneless, into his embrace. She allowed herself to be pulled over his chest through the course of their kiss and didn’t right herself when it ended. 

She stayed on him, lips wet and full, eyes wide open and dilated. Petyr kept his hold of her as he looked back. They were on the edge, teetering there. Neither of them seemed to want to pull themselves back on the solid ground of propriety, nor did they allow themselves to freefall into the murky waters of lust.

His brain put up weak argument that he should sit up and allow her time. She was an inexperienced virgin with trauma who still didn’t love him. Pulling her thin nightie up and impaling her on the couch would probably be a whole new trauma for her to endure. It was a terrible idea, though it didn’t stop his erection from demanding it be realized. 

His dick screamed,  _ Sixteen is not too young! _ His brain countered that sixteen was quite young for a man about to turn forty. Involuntarily--or perhaps it was completely voluntary, his hips shifted, dragging his bulge against her creamy thigh and he knew his dick was playing dirty. 

She looked down at the imposing lump under her and swallowed nervously, her fingers twitching against his chest. 

“Come to bed with me,” he purred. 

Sansa shook her head, “No.”

He lifted a piece of hair over her shoulder, smoothing it as he spoke, “Why not?” 

She lifted her gaze to meet his eye. “I don’t want to have sex.” 

“We don’t have to.” 

“Ha!” She chuckled uncomfortably, pulling herself up off of him. She pointed at the evidence of his intentions. “ _ He _ says otherwise.” 

Shit! No! They were so close to being more than the forced relationship they started with: captive and captor. She let him hold her, let him kiss her, reciprocated even. And then did it all again the next night. He refused to reverse their progress and face a kissless night. Panic rose in his throat as he gave a weak laugh, “Then let’s ignore  _ him _ .”

“Yeah right.” She started to stand up, rolling her eyes as she smiled bashfully, “He looks pretty hard to ignore.”

Her face turned an even deeper shade of red. She covered her eyes as she asked, “Did I really just say,  _ hard _ ?” 

He wasn’t sure how to respond to her rhetorical question. Instead of falling into that trap, he gently tugged her hands from her eyes. “It’s a huge bed. We don’t even have to touch.” 

She raised her eyebrow at that. “Then why do you want me to sleep with you?” 

Why wouldn’t he? She was the love of his life, missus to his mister, queen to his king. His bed was their bed, of course he wanted her in it, even if he had to build a wall of pillows so she’d allow it. “Because I would feel better with your company.”

Sansa stood hesitantly, visibly weighing her options in her head. The longer she thought, the more certain he was she would decline and then suddenly she asked, “Do you promise that man worked for Ramsay?” 

Petyr nodded, “Of course.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I know I shouldn’t have had him brought to me here. I was just relieving a little stress. I’m sorry.” 

“No,” she shook her head. “Don’t apologize. It’s oddly flattering.” 

That got his attention. Petyr’s eyes widened in surprise. Was she coming around to the darker shades of grey? He loved her regardless, but had to admit her purity was exhausting. He would relish the day she grew to him and they mirrored each other. 

It was as he was thinking this that she nodded her head and quietly said, “Okay, I’ll sleep with you.”

Giddy and filled with glee, Petyr took no time in whisking her away to his room. Once there he offered her first choice for sides of the bed. He joked, “I’m going to caution you not to make this decision lightly. Whichever side you choose will become your side of the bed for all of eternity.”

“Seriously?” It was obvious work to keep her jaw from dropping a little. 

_ Yes _ , was on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better. He turned away from her, as if it was much easier than it was. He mindfully lifted one leg in front of the other towards his closet, retrieving his sleeping pants as he tried to act casually. “Only if you want to.”

When he emerged from his closet in a v-neck white cotton t-shirt, his favorite snoopy pajama pants, and his gorilla slippers, she laughed unabashed. He scowled, “What?” 

She stifled her laughing fit long enough to explain. “Littlefinger wears gorilla slippers?” 

“What? They are quite toasty,” he reasoned. 

She shook her head, giggles still wracking her body. Petyr took the opportunity of her mirth to jump into bed and prop himself up on his elbow. “If they offend you, I can take them off.”

“No, no,” she laughed. “They are perfect.” 

Petyr smiled as he shucked them off. “I can’t wear them to bed anyway. I lose them in the blankets. And then I get a little sad when I can’t find them.”

She laughed and he legitimately wondered what was funny. It was true. The last time he wore them to bed, he had indeed lost them and was cross for quite a while. He made himself laugh along with her and then tapped the bed. “Hop in.” 

Sansa stared back at him, knowing this was her last opportunity to back out. He felt his heart race and his palms sweat as he gathered up the blankets to pull over himself, wondering what she would do. True to her word downstairs in the living room, she peeled back the covers and climbed in. He tried not to scream, overjoyed that he’d gotten her to agree to share his bed with him. 

Careful not to ruin things, Petyr kept to his side, rubbing one foot over the other as he stared at her. She turned her back to him at first, fussing with the pillow. If she was daring him to come and spoon her, he was too smart to take the bait. It took all of his strength not to close the gap and nuzzle his nose in the crook of her neck as he snuggled his cock against the crevice of her ass. It didn’t even matter that he wouldn’t be fucking her, he just wanted to feel her body burn and melt against his. But, he wouldn’t. Petyr knew the importance of investment. 

Suddenly, she turned her head and asked, “What was that white cartoon on your pants?” 

“Snoopy?”

“Huh?” Even in the dark he could see her brow furrow. 

“Snoopy. He’s a dog. His friend is the little yellow bird called Woodstock. It’s a great cartoon,” Petyr explained, willing his erection to behave at the sight of her open mouth beside him in the moonlight. 

“What’s it about?” She asked. 

And so it went on until she fell asleep during one of his lengthy explanations to one of her many questions. Petyr lifted himself up on his elbow to get a better look at her sleeping, but kept himself from touching her. He got Sansa in his bed by keeping his hands to himself; he would not ruin it by stealing gropes in her sleep, despite the obvious opportunity. 

Petyr woke in the morning to the feel of a finger running along the top of his scar, following it down to the bottom of his shirt’s neckline. She didn’t startle when he silently opened his eyes and looked at her, only asked, “What’s it from?” 

“An asshole,” he answered, simply. 

There was a faint smirk on her face as she asked, “Did you make him pay?” 

“Yes,” he answered. There was no point in beating around the bush. 

They laid in silence for a moment, the morning sun shining in on them. She continued to trace her finger over the fortified flesh, her face unreadable. Finally, he found the courage to ask, “Do you love me?” 

Sansa took a deep breath and glanced up at him, meeting him eye to eye for a moment before she looked away and admitted, “I don’t know.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to CKHybrid for betaing this chapter!!!


	8. Scars

It was a simple enough question, each word in it no larger than two syllables. He wished the meaning behind it matched its easy presentation. Sadly, it was much more complex than face value. When Sansa asked if she could go shopping, Petyr lost his appetite.

She hadn’t asked to leave the entire time she’d been with him, not even in the beginning when she wanted nothing more. Sansa was too smart at the time, knowing that not only would he never allow it, but that it would only upset him. Time had passed however, and she still hadn’t asked. He thought, rather, he _hoped_ it was because she had become more comfortable with him, with _them_. Each morning he woke up beside her, and imagined she was falling further in love with him.

It had been well over a month since he discovered her, the last two and a half weeks had been spent sharing a bedroom. How could she not feel what was growing between them? More than a couple of times, he’d woken to her having migrated over to his side of the bed, snuggled into him. One could pretend sleep was the responsible party all they wanted, but Petyr knew it was due to a subconscious want.

Even with all those assurances, he couldn’t help but bristle at her request. “I’ll give you my password for Amazon,” he replied quickly. “Catalogues and magazines are so outdated, I know.”

She sighed and pulled a lollipop from her pocket.

He hated that sound: disappointment. “What do you want to buy?”

“Does it matter?” She asked defensively, unwrapping it loudly.

Each unnecessary crinkle of plastic was offensive to his ears, his brow furrowing as he explained. “I’d like to know what would be worthwhile enough for you to leave my side.”

She jammed the lollipop in her mouth as she glared at him. She sucked on it a few times before she popped it out and used it to point at him as she declared, “A lover is not a prisoner.”

“ _Prisoner_?” He cocked his head. Did she truly feel like his prisoner? No. She couldn’t have felt that way. Her shy smile each time she scurried to the bathroom with her clothes told him she enjoyed his company. The way she always turned on her side in bed and asked him random questions until she fell asleep, proved that she was comfortable with him. Any of the many kisses she accepted from him, and every one of the ones she initiated herself, validated that she did not view herself as his prisoner.

“You know what I mean,” she groaned.

“No, actually, I don’t.” Petyr reached forward, clasping her forearm. “I thought you were happy here.”

“I am,” she nodded. “And I’d be happy with some freedom too.”

“Is that why you used such a hurtful word?” Petyr still felt the sting of it. He had been so close to giving her an early Christmas present of matching pajamas, and was feeling more and more relieved that he hadn’t. She didn’t deserve to match him so adorably.

She held his hand in hers. “I’m sorry. _Prisoner_ was too harsh. I was trying to prove a point and I beat it bloody.”

Petyr smiled, though he wasn’t sure if it was more because she was holding his hand or if it was because she admitted she was wrong. They were equally amazing developments and both felt great. He realized he’d been a bit too rash about the present, and resolved to give it to her over dinner later. It was cruel to deny her the opportunity to share his interests. Rather than gloat over the happiness he felt surging through him again, he opted to get to the point, “You are asking me to trust you.”

Sansa popped the lolli back in her mouth, spinning it around a little as she considered his words. She was adorable when she was thoughtful, and it made him want to challenge her more just to watch her puzzle things.

He wondered if she would try to deny that this was an issue of trust, scoff at the weight of his words and dismiss them. Would she roll her eyes and tell him she just missed shopping like any other teenage girl, and to not take everything so seriously? They were over twenty years apart; what he remembered from his youth was a propensity to make light of everything particularly heavy.

She surprised him again by slowly nodding her head and admitting, “Yes. I am. I think I’ve earned it.”

Perhaps she had. That didn’t alleviate his fear any. And since when had earning anything automatically meant that you got it? The world was a fucked up place where deserving didn’t factor in. That was usually to Littlefinger’s advantage. A little voice inside him screamed, _tit for tat!_ There had to be some give with that take, or it would never work. “If you want me to trust you, then it’s only right that you trust me a little.”

“I do trust you, Petyr.” She used his name on purpose, that was clear. She knew he always softened when she called him Petyr. He would have been annoyed at her transparent attempt at manipulation if he wasn’t a little flattered by it. He appreciated that she wanted to pander to him, offer him the pleasurable sound of his name on her tongue.

However, the sheer fact that she was trying to manipulate him, proved that she didn’t actually trust him. He sighed and shook his head, “No, you don’t.”

She scoffed, “Don’t you think that I know how I feel?”

Petyr said nothing, just gently pulled the lollipop from her mouth and popped it in his. It was a war between sour and sweet, melting on the tastebuds of his tongue. He didn’t know why he did it, just felt the impulse and gave into it. As she looked back at him, surprised by his actions, he somehow felt closer to her, tasting what she tasted.

“You don’t even like the lemon ones,” she laughed.

He shrugged, “Eh, I’ve grown a taste for them.” He hadn’t. This lollipop was terrible, and he couldn’t understand why she liked them, but he was enjoying it on some level all the same. He’d truly grown a taste for her, and with her came the bittersweet contradiction of lemon candy.

She pretended to sound put out, “Great, now I’m out a lollipop.” Unable to hold a straight face for long, she started laughing. Petyr joined in and chuckled with her at the absurdity of the situation, at least, that’s what he thought she was laughing at. Truth be told, it was always difficult for him to relate to typical human emotion and he just did his best to copy it whenever it was warranted.

Amidst the laughing, Petyr blurted out, “Tell me your name.”

It took her off guard, and her smile faded as she blinked, “What?”

“If you want me to trust you, I think it’s only fair that you trust me, too.” Petyr reached for her hand, his voice nonthreatening as he explained, “I’d be taking a risk letting you out, and you would be taking a risk telling me what your name is.”

She pulled away from him, and paced back and forth a bit. She touched her fingers to her lips as she looked off in a distance, deciding what her next words would be. Finally she looked up, “You love me, right?”

“More than anyone else,” he smiled.

She returned his warmth with a smile in response. “So, that means you’ll want to marry me, won’t you?”

He hadn’t thought about that. It was convention, so he probably should have. Then again, Petyr wasn’t one for convention. Was marriage the next step? Marriage was standing before a judge or spiritual leader and two witnesses, and pledging undying love for the person you plan to enter into a legally binding contract with. It was a lot to mull over, but most importantly he wondered whether or not cumberbuns were back in style. Petyr prided himself in being different, and often times that worked to his advantage, but there was such a thing as going _too_ vintage. He decided it best to delay, “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“I’m just trying to tell you that my name isn’t important since I’d be taking on yours anyway.” She threw her arms up in the air. “Whoever I am will cease to be and I’ll be Sansa Littlefinger.”

“Baelish,” he corrected.

“What?”

“Baelish. That’s my last name. Littlefinger is really just a nick--you know what? It doesn’t matter.” He waved the subject away, refusing to be distracted. “If your name wasn’t important to you then you would have told me a while ago, and you certainly wouldn’t be working so hard to avoid telling me now.”

She sighed, “This isn’t fair. You want me to tell you my last name, for what? So you can look me up? Look up my family?”

Family. He hadn’t considered that. At first he thought she was a whore, and then when he learned she was anything but, he was too wrapped up in wooing her to think of the outside world. Over the past month that she’d been staying with him, he’d gotten no indication that anyone was looking for her. She couldn’t have been connected, and yet she guarded the secret of her family name so devoutly. “Would that be so bad, sweetling?”

“Yes. I don’t want you to discover my family,” she admitted. He didn’t have to ask; his curious expression was enough for her to continue her explanation, “Ramsay took me from home. It was late at night, the lights were out. All I could hear was gunfire and their screams.” She teared up. “I don’t know if they’re alive or not.”

Petyr wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly. “I could find out for you. Whatever you need.” She didn’t have to be connected for Ramsay to act as he had. If the man caught sight of her and liked what he saw, as he so clearly did, he would find out where she lived and murder her whole family to have her.

“No,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” He rubbed her back and burrowed his nose into the side of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo as he pecked light kisses over her ear.

She sighed, trying to compose herself. “I can’t know whether or not they’re alive. If they aren’t, I’ll be devastated. It’s one thing to think they’re dead, but if they are…” She cried a new into him. “And, and if they are alive...I’ll want to go to them.”

It dawned on Petyr that perhaps Sansa was trying to stay his captive. He stood stunned, holding her, shocked by the revelation. “And you think that would upset me.”

She nodded against his shoulder.

It had taken so long to get to this level of intimacy. For him to deny her the right to see her family, he knew it would hurt them. He should have felt comforted by the idea that she wanted to stay in his grasp, however, the idea of granted her the freedom to leave his estate, was terrifying. A disgusting sense of doubt crept in and he wondered what if this had all been an act on her part? What if her sixteen year old brain thought of it as slumber parties and practice-kissing for a real boyfriend later when she’d been freed and allowed to reintegrate into society? He felt like he was connecting with the love of his life, but was she just playing a part?

He stroked her hair as he drown in insecurities. It was the wrong answer, and he knew it, but he never claimed to be perfect. He kissed the side of her head again and said, “You know me so well.”

She remained silent for a moment, and then slowly pulled from him. She wiped her eyes, giving him a forced smile. “I hate crying. I feel so stupid.”

“Don’t,” he tried to assure her.

She shook her head, laughing a little uncomfortably. “Ugh, I feel so vulnerable now. I hate it.” She crossed her arms and laughed, “Okay, your turn.”

“My turn?” Petyr repeated.

Sansa walked over to his candy dish and pulled a lolli from it. “I just told you something private, it’s only fair if you tell me something private too.”

Petyr mentally flipped through the rolodex of secrets he’d acquired over the years, before he decided, “I can’t. All my secrets could get you killed.”

She rolled her eyes as she unwrapped the candy. “I’m sure you’d protect me.”

He smirked, “Yeah but why create a situation unnecessarily? I mean, I already rescued the damsel in distress.”

Her expression darkened as she obviously thought about the night Littlefinger charged into Ramsay’s and took her from the sick twisted sadist. Shit. He hadn’t meant to pull her thoughts back to that night. Petyr may have remembered it fondly, having seen many similar situations, though that one proving more fruitful for him. She, however, would remember it as the worst time of her life.

That was twice he’d said the wrong thing, even if she’d only realized it the once. He felt a turning in the pit of his stomach and he wondered if this was that thing called guilt. He ran through all the things he’d eaten that day, determined to pin the discomfort on poor nutritional choices, rather than real emotion. But he couldn’t, his diet was perfect, as usual. This feeling was good ol’ fashioned guilt, and it was compelling him to make amends.

She popped the lolli in her mouth and spoke around it, “Come on, Petyr. Spill.”

“I loved another once,” he confessed. It was the only way he could think to make it right. Catelyn was a secret that he held close, and would be difficult to share. He owed Sansa some difficulty, and he knew it. He could barely meet her eye as he spoke, “The two of you actually look similar. I guess I have a type,” he laughed uncomfortably. “But thankfully, you couldn’t be more different.”

“What happened to her?” Sansa asked wide-eyed.

Petyr shrugged, “She picked someone else.” It hadn’t seemed that simple at the time, but now he could think of no other way to describe it. “She actually told me that I was _unhinged_ , can you believe that?”

Sansa didn’t respond. Her unwillingness to lie, while simultaneously not wanting to upset him was endearing and it just made him laugh. “Well, regardless, she got married and had a litter of puppies.”

Sansa stared back incredulously, “And you let her? No house arrest?”

He chuckled, “I guess I mustn’t have loved her enough.”

Sansa eyed him as she twirled the lollipop in her mouth. “I think you loved her quite a lot. And that’s left you scarred.”

“In more ways than one,” he rolled his eyes.

Her eyebrow raised in question.

He waved her off, but she was too insistent, “No, what did you mean? _Spill._ ”

Hadn’t he spilled enough? Love was so demanding. She showed a sliver of vulnerability and he was stuck with some true-blue emotions from it, and now she was beating him senseless with this honest connection they’d created. He ran his fingers through his hair, taking quick note that the protein enhanced formula of his shampoo did not make his hair feel any fuller than it had before he bought sixty-four ounces of it at three a.m.

Impulsively, he reached for the buttons of his Brioni button-up, wanting to rip them open to avoid the time it would take to work them and change his mind in the process. He reminded himself that gentlemen didn’t rip through five hundred dollar shirts. His fingers moved over his shirt deftly, displaying a self-control he was forcing himself to have. Revealing his scar to the open air, he felt the sting of it, a faint comparison to the day he’d acquired it.

Sansa had seen the scar before, while they lay in bed together. He’d avoiding talking about it the one time she seemed daring enough to inquire about it. “This, is from one of her _suitors._ ” He knew she could see the scar poke out above the neck of his white cotton undershirt, but couldn’t see how far down it went. He untucked the shirt from his pants and lifted it, letting her see it end just above his belly button. “She forgot to tell me that she was done with me, before taking up with him. When I saw them together, I thought I was defending my girlfriend’s honor.”

Sansa pulled the lolli from her mouth and set it on the table beside them. He cringed, wishing she had found a trash can instead, but was quickly distracted when he felt her fingers run over the raised flesh. She’d touched his scar before, but she did so now with a whole new respect for it. Was this what honesty created in a relationship? He chuckled nervously, “I can’t help but feel rather exposed.”

She suddenly looked at war with herself, there was so much behind her eyes as she chewed her lip.

“What’s wrong?” He didn’t understand. If anything, he should be the one upset.

Sansa shook her head at him and then reached for the bottom of her shirt and in one swift motion pulled it up over her head. Petyr’s eyes instantly landed on the supple breasts that filled the demi cups he’d added to her order and then promised must have been sent by mistake. Fuck if she didn’t fit them perfectly. He was thankful yet again that she didn’t seem to find the mistaken order suspicious at all. He noticed what looked like a large cut over the top of one of her breasts that hadn’t healed right, and then another aggressive looking mark peeking out of the other cup.

He let his eyes drop down to her midriff and took in all the cuts that had slowly healed into scars. Petyr walked around her, moving her long hair to see the scars that littered her back. Ramsay seemed to prefer keeping it all to her torso; her arms and legs seemed mostly left alone. As Petyr walked around to the front of her, his fists clenched in rage renewed, he saw a tear drip from her jaw. Her voice was shaky as she breathed, “I bet you don’t love me now.”

Petyr was certain she never looked more beautiful. The girl had been literally sliced up at the hands of a psychopath, and yet here she was tearing her insides apart over the heart of someone deemed _unhinged_. Words caught in his throat, as he watched another tear roll down her cheek.

Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees and pressed his lips to the scar closest to him. She startled a little, opening her eyes to look down at him.

“What are you doing?”

He responded, not with words, but by kissing another scar, and lovingly petting another still. Petyr was halfway across her belly, paying tribute to each wound healed when he felt her hand in his hair and heard her whisper something.

“Hmm?” He asked, not taking his lips off her, running his thumb back and forth over a shiny round burn the size and shape of a cigar.

“Stark,” she replied. “My name. It’s Sansa _Stark_.”

Petyr froze with a death grip on her hips as the floor fell out from under him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, ok. *closes eyes and holds hands up in show of surrender*  
> I know I put Petyr kissing Sansa's stretchmarks in Deadhead. I'm not trying to recycle ideas here, promise. It just felt so completely perfect imo to have this particular Petyr kissing this particular Sansa's scars too. 
> 
> Huge thanks again go to CKHybrid for looking this over!


	9. Just His Type

Petyr shoved her, moving swiftly from knees to toes as he sprung back, recoiling. The look of complete and utter revulsion his face twisted in didn’t do his feeling of betrayal justice. Sansa looked back at him with a mixture of confusion and hurt as she gripped her shirt, covering as much of herself as she could. She stuttered, unable to form a coherent response. 

Petyr spat, “This is some sick joke isn’t it?” 

Sansa quickly pulled her shirt over herself, flipping her hair out of her face. “What do you mean?” 

“Ramsay planned this, didn’t he?” Petyr asked, pacing back and forth, shifting from shock to anger. “ _ Didn’t he! _ ” He demanded.

He wanted to smack the traitorous bitch before him, but wouldn’t allow himself to. Some part of him still registered her as his love. He wished he could cut that part out, but knew it was vital to his survival that he left it. That didn’t mean that he had to cherish it as he once had. Instead he stomped off toward his bedroom. 

“Petyr!” She called. 

He ignored her, putting one foot in front of the other, further and further away from her. It had all been a lie. She was not the love of his life, but instead just a shitty copy of her. He was wrong to denounce Catelyn in favor of Sansa--even though loving her never felt as good as it did her daughter. Ramsay clearly stole the girl and groomed her to make a fool of Littlefinger later. The city knew of his childhood dalliances with Catelyn Tully; what better way to put the fucks to him than to tease him with her direct descendant? 

Petyr hated every moment shared with Sansa and wished he could smudge and smear each memory from his brain--along with that niggling little voice in the back of his head that told him he still loved her. She was a lying whore. Well, not a  _ whore _ perse. Unless she liked about that too? Fuck! He didn’t know who she was anymore. 

Catelyn’s daughter, that was who. 

Part of him screamed,  _ No! _ She was battered and bruised, and wore the marks of Ramsay. There was no way she’d be in on this plot to embarrass him. Another part of him pointed out that many women enjoyed the scars a man gave them, and it wasn’t too far-fetched to believe that this whole “trauma” story was a ploy to get further into his good graces. 

He ripped the door to his bedroom open, ignoring her behind him. Her cries of, “What?” and “What’s wrong?” drowned out into white noise as he yanked every single shoe off its shelf and threw them in the center of this closet. 

Petyr was barely aware of her pale face and ginger hair in his periphery, so focused on ripping hangers from the bar that held them. He tossed all of his clothes back over his shoulder in frenzy, determined to see nothing but bare eggshell wall. And then he hated even that. 

Who chose to paint his closet  _ eggshell _ anyway? Certainly not he. It should have been a color that complimented his wardrobe, not one so pathetically plain. Her voice sounded underwater behind him, insistently uttering all the things he refused to hear. He closed his eyes, reaching his hands into the pile of clothing, feeling each article. 

Rough. 

Smooth. 

Slippery. 

Soft.

Tweed, twill, cotton, silk, wool. 

No, no, no. It was all wrong. It should have gone: Tweed, twill, wool, cotton, silk. Christmas was around the corner, it needed to be in ascending order, not descending. There had to be something to look forward to, not dwell upon. 

Petyr sighed, with an ounce of relief. It felt good to make some sense of it all. Textures were calming. Organization was _ coping. _

He praised the chaos for the opportunity to find order. It was only after he had hung the fourth silk shirt that he was able to hear beyond the steady hiss of emotional-overload in his ear to her feminine voice all but shouting, “What’s your problem?”

Petyr whirled around, reaching for another hanger when her hand shot out over his. The contact of her cold palm against his heated hand, knuckles tight around the hanger, snapped him out of his focus. He looked up at her staring back at him. Her brow furrowed. Was that concern or frustration? Did it matter? She was a liar. 

His voice deepened, “Remove your hand.”

“No,” she shook her head, bravely. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.” 

How fierce she was all of a sudden. No longer the young girl sucking on lollipops and crying into his shoulder. Backstabbing and treachery did that to a person, grew them up awfully fast. “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Petyr sneered. “You’re the woman. You’re the Stark. You’ve found your target. Congrat-u _ -fucking- _ lations!”

She stood silent, refusing to relinquish her grip on him. His jaw tightened as he wrenched his arm from hers. She had the audacity to gasp at him over it, as if his actions were too savage for her delicate sensibilities. Her voice sounded hurt as she whispered his name, “ _ Petyr! _ ” 

Quite the actress. 

Like mother, like goddamned daughter. 

He stared back at her as he pulled his cellphone from his pocket. “Master bedroom. Now.” 

Her eyes darted around her, “Who did you call?” 

“Goodbye, Sansa  _ Stark _ .” He turned his back on her, and stared down at the pile of clothing waiting to be fixed. 

With in seconds Oswell and Brune were in his room, walking through the door to his closet. He waved his hand at her, and they each took an arm, hauling her to the door. He snorted,  _ that would teach her _ . She thought she could make a fool of him. The joke was on her. Littlefinger told himself that people always looked ridiculous chained in the basement, praying to a god they only recently discovered. 

“NOOOOOO!” Her high pitched shrill quaked through him and Petyr felt a pain shoot through his chest. 

It was the call of his soulmate in mortal peril that manifested physically in him. That, or a heart attack--his doctor was always chiding him over his cholesterol. Regardless, he felt it real enough to warrant some level of action on his part. He raised a hand to stop his men, and turned slowly on one heel. 

_ “Petyr! _ ” She cried. 

He kept his eyes to the floor as he raised his index finger to his lips. “Shh,” he insisted. 

If she were a traitorous whore, she would lie when questioned. It was what they did best, it being second nature. If she were the honest woman he had enjoyed cuddling with each night, she would answer him with truth. “What’s your mother’s name?” 

“What?” She shook her head, confused. Sansa wriggled in the henchmen’s grasp, putting up enough resistance to be an annoyance to them, but not enough to free herself. As if she could. “What are you talking about, Petyr?” 

“Answer me.” His voice contained an edge he was proud of. Had he an ounce less of self-control, he’d have barked the order out. 

Her brow furrowed, “Catelyn. Why?”  

His heart sank, his suspicion confirmed. She was Catelyn’s daughter, held by Ramsay as some awful joke, the butt of which was Littlefinger. He remembered the way Sansa sniffled over the memory of the things Ramsay did to her, all while she buffed the ridges out of Petyr’s nails and lacquered them.

There was no way she could have been in on it. If so, she would have to be an academy award winning actress. He highly doubted that’s who she was, considering how quickly he’d learned to read her expressions in their time together. Ramsay may have planned this as one of his morbid games, but this girl was genuine. 

What did that make Petyr? 

The man who fell for the real girl in the fake situation.

What did that make her? 

The innocent girl used as a pawn in another man’s game. Sansa didn’t want to know if her family was dead or alive. She said she’d been taken in the night in a soundtrack of screams and gunshots. He knew what happened to them, it had been all over the news two months before Petyr walked into Ramsay’s lair. 

He’d turned the volume up when he saw Catelyn’s high cheekbones and vibrant blue eyes staring back at him on the eleven o’clock news. The anchor man announced that Ned Stark and his family were brutally murdered in a home invasion. They flashed a picture of the oldest son, about to show all of the children in succession when Petyr turned it off. The boy had so much of Catelyn in him, that Petyr couldn’t bear to look at him, let alone see all little Catelyn look alikes.

Petyr worked to put it out of his head, intermittently using unhealthy coping mechanisms to deal with whatever pain cropped up over the loss of the woman he cherished from afar for so many years. When Sansa came into his life, it was a miracle. She was the only woman capable of putting Catelyn from his head. How fitting that she be her daughter. Petyr wondered if he’d ever escape Cat’s clutches.

“Petyr, what does my mother’s name have to do with anything?” Sansa asked, her curiosity making her bolder.

Oswell and Brune held her tightly, staring forward, like the professionals they were. Petyr looked into her eyes and knew all at once that Catelyn didn’t matter. Neither did Ramsay. Sansa was pure, and she was all his. 

That awful feeling of guilt hit him again. His palms itched to touch her, fighting the emotions that consumed him. He was fighting, but he was losing. In three long strides, he was on her. One hand cradled the back of her head and the other gripped her cheek as he pressed his lips to hers. 

“Pe--” she startled, surprised by the sudden gesture of affection. He spent no time coaxing her to accept him, instead swiping his tongue over her lips until she opened them, and dove in. His kiss was deep and thorough and contained everything he felt. It was an apology for doubting her, for being so cold. It was a promise to be better. It was also a claiming. She was his, though for the briefest of moments when he felt tricked, he’d closed himself to her. He felt a primal need to reclaim her, force them to regain the ground he’d given up in that moment. 

She groaned, turning her head and kissing him back as much as she could with her arms held. Petyr picked his head up enough to grunt, “Let her go.”

Brune and Oswell released her and her arms were around him in an instant as their lips found each other again. Sansa pulled at his shirt, moaning into his mouth. The blood rushed to his cock and he was only too eager to remove the layers of fabric between them. His hands reached for her shirt as he nibbled her lip. She smiled into his mouth, nudging his hands away. “Petyr?”

“Hmm?” He reached down and gripped handfuls of her ass. His long fingers slid under her bottom to where her legs parted, feeling the heat that radiated even through the thick material of her jeans. 

She gasped as his middle fingers pressed where all the seams met. He chuckled at the blush that reddened her cheeks. 

Sansa slid her palms over his chest, her eyes fluttering shut each time his fingers added the slightest pressure against her opening. It didn’t help of course, that he lined his bulge up perfectly with her nub and kept squeezing her closer to him. 

Her small sounds of excitement were turning into a pant as she wriggled in his grip, her inexperienced hands frantically groping and grabbing at him. Petyr relished her affection, however clumsy. This was one hundred percent willing and wanting. 

She froze, however, when his hand came around and worked the button on her pants. She clasped her hand over his, and gave a nervous chuckle, “Maybe we should calm things down a bit.” 

“Why?” he asked, his brain drowning in the lust that a teased cock could create. He kissed a trail down her neck, “Doesn’t it feel good to be with me?”

“ _ God, yes _ ,” she moaned when he drug his teeth over her collarbone. 

He smiled and popped the button on her jeans, only to have her snap her eyes open as she insisted, “No, Petyr.”

Very slowly, and with no little amount of effort, he lifted his head, and stared into her eyes, dilated for him. He saw the same lust he felt mirrored back to him, but also saw apprehension. Was it because she was a virgin? Or was it because he’d yet to answer her question in regards to her mother? 

He lifted his hand and took a step back, shifting the now painful bulge in his pants. Petyr had to clear the need from his voice as he said, “I didn’t mean to push, I understand if you’re not ready.” 

She fixed the button on her pants. “It’s fine, Petyr.” 

“No, I’m sorry.” He bent down and picked his shirt up off the floor. “I was too caught up in the moment and I should have stopped sooner.” The last thing he needed was for her to start equating him with Ramsay. 

Sansa seemed to ignore him, changing the subject quickly as if he hadn’t just overstepped his bounds, “Why did you ask me about my mother’s name?”

Petyr put his shirt on and sighed, “I am almost certain that Ramsay took you from your home as a way to upset me.” 

“Upset you? You didn’t even know me. And what does this have to do with my mother?” Sansa looked more and more confused by the second. 

He reached for her hand, and smiled when she slid it easily in his. He appreciated that they hadn’t lost that in their relationship, her willingness to be held by him. “I didn’t know you at the time, but I knew your mother.”

Sansa’s look of surprise was almost comical as she asked, “You knew Mom?” 

Petyr looked away, unable to meet her eye. “I loved her.” 

Silence. He didn’t dare look up. 

She swallowed audibly and then laughed, “Very funny.” 

“I wish I were joking.” He rubbed her hand, staring down at it. 

Sansa scoffed, “I don’t believe you.”

“Whether you believe me or not, at least I told you,” Petyr sighed, feeling a small weight lift off of him. He brought his gaze to her beautiful face as he continued, “I was just as upset as you,  _ clearly _ . But I am looking forward to putting this behind us.” 

She stared back at him incredulously. “Holy shit, you’re serious, aren’t you?” 

Petyr held her gaze, not wanting to repeat himself. It had been painful enough to tell the love of his life that there had been another before her. He knew it must hurt her to know that his affection was bestowed on another. He felt a fraction of that pain when she told him she had had a boyfriend. Petyr could at least comfort himself with knowing that the relationship she spoke of couldn’t have possibly been of substance. His feelings for Cat, on the other hand, had been ones he’d felt in varying degrees for decades. 

The love he felt for her was so miniscule compared to what he felt for Sansa, but the amount of effort he put into his feelings warranted her a larger place in his heart. It would now be only in memory, which was good as Petyr thought it would be quite tiresome to love two women at the same time. Fucking them was fine, but actually loving, that took emotional energy. The sheer avidity with which he adored Sansa promised he’d have no energy to juggle another, especially since Cat wasn’t the easiest woman to love. 

“ _ She’s _ the woman who looked like me that you loved before?” Sansa repeated, a slight tremble to her as she did.

Petyr nodded, not trusting his own voice. 

“So then,” she nodded at his chest. “My dad did that?” 

“Uncle,” Petyr corrected. 

“Uncle?” 

Petyr gave a sick laugh, “Your mom  _ got around _ .”

She ripped her hand out of his and jumped back. “Don’t say that!” 

“I apologize, it was in poor taste.” 

“No! You know what?  _ You’re _ in ‘poor taste,’ Petyr!” She screamed. “What am I? A clone of the woman who rejected you? A younger version of your long lost love?” 

Petyr took a step towards her, unable to get a word in edgewise. She stepped back away from him as she spat out, “Am I your second chance to bang her?” 

“ _ No! _ ” Petyr growled.

The deep sound of his voice frightened her into silence as she stared back at him, eyes the size of saucers. 

He cleared his throat. “I don’t need a second chance to fuck Catelyn Tully-Stark, because I already played that game. It wasn’t exactly hard to get between her legs. The difficulty was staying there; she was quick to move on.” 

“Shut up, Petyr. You’re being disgusting,” Sansa’s lip curled in distaste. “You expect me to believe that my mother was a slut? The woman who raised me with the credo: Family, Duty, Honor? Nice try, Petyr. Sorry you’re bitter about things, but don’t slander her name, especially not to me.” 

Family. Duty. Honor. What a fucking joke. 

How little she knew about her own family, and how much Petyr did. He’d grown up with the Tullys, after all. He knew all too well what they were about. “Hoster-- _ Grampy _ drilled that into her head each time he caught her legs-up in the back of a car. By the time your father took pity on her and dragged her to the altar, the message must have actually stuck. At least enough to push it on you.”

Sansa’s lips pursed, “You have nothing but terrible things to say about the woman you supposedly loved.” 

Petyr laughed, “Love isn’t a choice. I didn’t choose her, and I didn’t choose you, either. I felt something for you that night and I decided to nurture it, that’s all. But the feeling was there whether I wanted it or not.” His voice softened as he added, “Like it is for you.”

“For me?” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. 

He nodded, “You wouldn’t be this upset if you didn’t feel something for me.”

She threw her arms up and yelled, “I do! Anger! Betrayal! Disgust! Take your fucking pick.” 

He stared at the beauty of her passion: eyes alight, face enflamed, all with the fire that raged within. There was no way she’d respond this way if she didn’t love him. He knew that. Logically, he knew that. “I love you too, sweetling.” 

“Arg!” She growled and turned to leave. 

Oswell and Brune took a step towards the door to stop her. She stood in front of them, seething. Her voice was almost unrecognizable as she demanded, “ _ Move! _ ” 

Petyr flinched at the pain in her voice. He spoke barely above a whisper, “Let her go.”

Unable to watch her leave, he stared down at the pile of clothes on his floor. His only indication that she was gone, was the movement in his periphery. He instantly regretted letting her go. Petyr simply reacted to the pain in her voice, allowing her the space to heal. He was too hasty. He should have made her stay, maybe let her sleep in her own room for the night if she needed space. He shouldn’t have actually let her leave his estate. 

Olyvar appeared in the doorway, “Would you like me to pack her things, Sir?” 

Too soon. 

“Yes.” There was no way she’d return to him. He’d kidnapped her from her kidnapper, forced his love on her, and admitted to desiring her mother. There was no way she’d see past all of that to the connection they had. 

Catlyn had called him unhinged, and Sansa called him disgusting. He was officially o for o in the love department.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks go to expected_aberrance for betaing this chapter as well as providing me with the awesome Saint Motel song "My Type" which fits sooooo damn well LoL!


	10. The Capital of Sweden Is?

Olyvar had everything neatly stacked and piled by the backdoor when Petyr laid the wrapped Christmas present on top of the pile. He’d opened up the shipping box, pulled the Peanuts themed pajama set from the plastic bag that held it and felt the fabric. It was simultaneously soft and sturdy as only flannel can be. Petyr remembered picking them out, telling himself that winter was coming and he wanted his love to be warm. He couldn’t always count on her migrating to his side of the bed to stave off a chill, and he wanted to be sure she didn’t catch a cold. 

That was love, wasn’t it? It wasn’t multiple orgasms, but surely she could appreciate it all the same? 

Petyr took the time and care necessary to place the clothing in a gift box and wrap it, determined to make the ends meet perfectly to complete the picture of Linus wearing his santa hat and holding his blanket without any discontinuation. He needed Olyvar’s help with the bow, but that was only because the man had so much more practice wrapping Petyr’s presents than Petyr did. If he applied himself, Petyr was sure he’d excel at gift wrapping too. 

There was no forwarding address, so Petyr instructed Oswell and Brune to load the Hummer up with all of her things and drive around until they found her. He was tempted to tell them to throw her in the car and bring her back, but he’d already tried that method of romance. Instead, he instructed them to find her and offer to deliver both her and her things to wherever she intended on staying. 

He was startled to see long familiar auburn locks and cerulean eyes looking back at him through the glass of his backdoor. Both of them stood there, motionless. He wondered if she was trying to determine how actual he was as well, or if the burden of reality testing was his alone to bear. It wouldn’t be the first time. Dr. Seaworth had been excellent at assuring him that he was not alone. 

The doorknob turned and she was through it, no partition between them. He rubbed his thumb against the pads of his fingers at his sides, staying grounded in what he knew to be real. “You’re back.”

Sansa simply nodded. 

“Why?” She had reason enough not to ever step foot in his home again. 

“My family is dead,” she responded. There was no tremor in her voice, no vulnerability. She must have still been in shock, poor thing. He understood all about shock. It was a state he’d been in since she left. Then again, Petyr was used to having someone he loved leave him. She wasn’t.

He pursed his lips and closed his eyes, “I am sorry.” 

“Did you kill them?” 

His eyes opened, “What?”

“You heard me.” Her chin set in determination. 

“No. I didn’t.” He would have been hurt that she didn’t know that, but he couldn’t blame her for wondering. He hadn’t exactly sung her mother’s praises and it was no secret that Petyr’s extreme control was due to a tendency to behave a touch impulsively whenever he was between refills. “I met you after they’d already been murdered, and only really just found out who you were tonight, sweetling.”

She swallowed and nodded her head, “I know.” 

“Then why did you ask?” 

She took a step closer to him, and sighed. “Because, I don’t really know anything anymore.” 

He ran his hand through his hair so he’d stop obsessively rubbing the pads of his fingers. “Do you know why you came back?”

There was nothing but blunt honesty in her expression as she answered, “Because you love me.” 

Petyr couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t exactly say she loved him in return. She’d been so upset at the knowledge that he’d loved her mother before her. He couldn’t risk opening his heart to her again only for her to reject him. He kept his voice even as he replied, “I’ve loved others.”

“ _ Other _ ,” she corrected, emphasizing that it was only one prior to her. “And you love  _ me _ more.” 

He couldn’t deny the truth in her words, and didn’t back away when he saw her step forward. Her voice was calm as she asked, “Do you know where I went when I left?” 

Petyr hadn’t the faintest idea. He could have--probably should have. If he wasn’t so affected by her leaving him, he would have sent his men after her. He simply wasn’t in a space to think of it. He shook his head no at her expectant look. 

Sansa pulled a lollipop out of her pocket and held it up for closer inspection. It was pomegranate flavored. She grinned proudly, “We were out, and I know they’re your favorite.”

“You wanted to go shopping for a lollipop?” He asked, laughing. 

“Yes. At first.” Sansa nodded. “I wanted to give you something. You always give me everything. Even though you don’t have to.” 

She didn’t resist when he threw his arms around her, nuzzling into her neck as he insisted, “Of course, I do. I love you.” 

She sighed into him, “I think about the night we met, a lot.” 

“Mm, me too.” He ran his hand over her back. “You were so feisty, so perfect.”

“You were so powerful and strong,” she admitted. “And the night you came home and I thought you were hurt. I was so worried about you.” 

“Mm,” he kissed under her ear. “Your worry for me was the best feeling in the world.” 

“Shut up,” she swatted at his shoulder and laughed. “I’m trying to tell you something.” 

“I’m all ears,” he chuckled into her neck, ecstatic with how easily she allowed him to shower her in his love, considering ten minutes prior he thought he lost her forever. 

Sansa lifted his chin so that he could look her directly in the eye. “You’ve always been so kind to me. So careful. Even though you’re not a very nice man...” 

His chest tightened. Here it was. Time for the other shoe to drop. Did she return to him so that she could ground her rejection into him with the heel of her boot? Petyr closed his eyes, unable to look at her. 

“I didn’t go far to find the lollipop.”

He refused to open his eyes. 

She continued, relentless in her speech. He wished she’d get to the point. Write him off and be done with it already. “It was at the first drug store I found. Apparently, it’s not as rare of a flavor as I would have thought.” 

The first drug store she would have encountered was exactly a half a mile from the house. The time it would have taken her to walk to it, find the lollipop, and return, was highly disproportionate to the amount of time she’d been away. Petyr opened his eyes and stared at her. “It must have taken you quite a while to find that lollipop amidst all the other candies.”  

She smiled, “No, actually. I found it within minutes of sifting through the lollipop bin.” 

He appraised the amusement in her eyes as he kept himself from saying anything too quickly. Petyr got the odd sense that she might have been baiting him for an excessive reaction for her own sense of humor. The throb in his pants reminded him that he found that extremely attractive. 

“I spent the rest of the time thinking. And pacing,” she answered into the dead air. 

He raised one brow and repeated back, “Thinking and pacing?” It wasn’t that he couldn’t relate to that state of being. He’d been doing exactly the same as he barked at Olyvar to put his all into making the perfect bow tasked with showing her how serious his feelings for her were. 

She nodded, “I thought about your scar.”

A wave of self-consciousness hit, and Petyr wished he’d elected for the cosmetic surgery that hadn’t promised effective results. He bit his tongue feeling for the first time since his rise to power that he should have risked it. 

Seemingly unaware of the war within, Sansa slid her hand under his shirt, and brushed her fingers over the highway of silvered flesh that ran down his center. She leaned into him further as her hand raised over his stomach and found his chest. “I thought of your lips.”

His eyes fluttered shut at that, his cock a divining rod, pulling him towards the pelvis in front of him. He heard her sigh into his ear before she whispered, “On my scars.” 

Fuck. 

Please. 

He groaned as he snuggled into her again, needing to feel as close as he had when he knelt before her, making love to each poorly healed injury. She kissed his cheek. “You may have loved my mother.” She kissed the other. “You may be a bad man.” Her hand moved his from her back and shoved it under her shirt to one of the many scars she wore. “But, you accept all of me.” 

Unable to control himself, Petyr pushed her back against the door behind them and covered her mouth with his again. She must have gotten a lemon lolli in her trip to the store as well, because her mouth tasted of that bitter saccharine that aroused him so. He smiled into her lips at the familiar taste. She rocked her hips into him, gasping when his palm slid up higher, covering her breast. Her hardened nipple poked out the top of her bra and Petyr teased it, more and more pleased with his decision to go with the demi.

“ _ Petyr _ ,” she gasped again, feeling him grind against her. 

He reluctantly pulled his lips from her, his wild eyes searching hers. Had he hurt her? Did she need to stop things? He tried to tell himself that it would be okay if she did. He’d hand her the gift and they’d go to bed with a bag of movie theater butter popcorn and another movie off of Gary Oldman’s IMDB list.

“I got something else at the store,” she breathed heavily, trapped between him and the door. Her hand fished in her pocket as she licked her lips. He licked his in return, keeping himself firmly pressed against her pelvis. His fingertips dug into her ass as he worked to restrain himself. She groaned, “I wanted to be ready.” 

Too far gone to form words, Petyr’s brow furrowed, not understanding. He caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. Her hand raised, holding something gold and shiny in it. He turned his head to inspect it more closely. 

_ Trojan Sensitivity: BareSkin _

Whatever tentative control he had, snapped as he devoured her lips with renewed vigor. His love wanted him. She thought about it. He told her he used to fuck her mother and she bought a condom. Jesus Christ on a cracker. She was everything he could ever want and more. They would need the Magnum sizes, but that was an easy mistake for her to make, having never had the opportunity to size him up prior. Though, he proudly thought that the imposing bulge she often encountered might have given her some clue. Petyr told himself to forgive her; she was a virgin after all. She would learn soon enough. 

Virgin. 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. 

He told himself to slow down, not to traumatize the girl with his feral need to fuck. Besides, if he was too rough with her, he’d feel that awful emotion guilt again, and he’d be forced to let her pick the movie at bedtime. Knowing his luck, she’d want to watch some ridiculous Adam Sandler movie, and everyone knew he stopped being funny after the nineties. He pulled back again, lifting her shirt up over her head, exposing her marred flesh to the open air. 

Petyr ran his fingers over each mark and bit his lip. She mewled under him, lifting her hips off the door, trying to coax him back to her as he had been before. He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nostrils, trying not to respond to the way she teased the ache in his pants. His voice came out hoarse as he asked, “Are you sure you want this?” 

She nodded quickly, her greedy smile confirming her words. “Yes. I want you.”

His hands tightened on her hips, stopping her from rocking into him. He wasn’t sure if he could stand her brushing up against him again. “I’m losing my control.” 

“Okay,” she breathed. 

He shook his head. “No. You think it is. But I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t,” she leaned forward and kissed his chin. “I thought about this. I want this.” 

His hand found the front of her jeans and he gripped the waistband, letting his fingers delve under it to trace the top of her panties. She was so warm, so inviting. Her needy moans told him he was at least having the same effect on her that she was on him. It would be so easy to let his fingers fall further, press against her seam. 

Whatever control he tried to have was fast slipping away from him and it took everything in him to pull his hand from her pants. Her eyes snapped open, and her bewildered expression showed her disappointment. He completely understood. He felt it too. But she was the love of his life, and she was new to these things. Petyr wouldn’t take advantage. This was an investment. If he could please her now, show her respect and decency, control the animal within, she would be that more ready to take him all forms later. 

He pulled a knife from his pocket and opened it. She looked down at the metal shining in the light, and held her breath. He pressed the handle into her palm and explained. “I want to be good to you. I want to stop when you need me to.” 

She stared back, holding the knife out to the side. 

“If I don’t stop when you ask me to,” he kissed her neck. “Then I want you to stab me.” He kissed down her breast, peeling back her bra to capture a nipple in his mouth. 

“ _ Petyr _ ,” she moaned. “No. I can’t.” 

He flicked his tongue over her hardened peak a couple more times before he lifted his head. “Go for my bicep or my thigh. You’re trying to stop me, not kill me.” 

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” she shook her head. 

He smiled as he kissed the valley between her breasts. “Hopefully you won’t have to.” 

She thread her fingers through his hair and smiled down at him as he kissed down towards her belly button. “I love you.” 

Her words rang throughout his body. Petyr nipped her stomach and begged, “Say it again.” 

Sansa threw her head back against the door behind her. “I love you.” 

His hand found the button of her jeans again as he knelt in front of her for the second time that night. “Again.” 

“I love you,” she giggled. 

He hovered over her sex, the smell of her private musk filling his nostrils. His mouth closed over the zipper of her jeans, leaving the copper taste of it on his tongue as he slowly pulled it down with his teeth. Sansa Stark, the one and only love of his life, smiled bashfully down at him. Her hair hung in her face, both fists suspended in the air, white-knuckling a knife in one hand and crushing a condom in the other. 

Petyr was exultant, having finally gotten the girl. Life had been so long and lonely without her, and he’d only just realized what it felt like to have his affection returned. He’d stayed strong in his resolve, and she come around to find he was not the monster she thought he was. Or, at least, perhaps that he was a monster she didn’t mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks YET AGAIN to CKHybrid -- she put up with the rapid rate at which I plowed through writing this fic. Omg the ideas just kept flowing and I kept writing and she kept being super helpful.


	11. Epilogue: Hallmark Christmas

“Pease, ansa. Etty, etty ease?” Petyr begged around a mouth full of flesh. 

She blushed down at the lump in the comforter and giggled at the feel of his lips nipping her thigh, so much more ticklish on the inside than the out. She pushed the bit of lemon flavored candy cane she’d been sucking on to the side of her mouth and exclaimed, “No!” 

“Oh?” he teased, curling his lips back to graze her with his teeth. 

Sansa crushed the candy quickly, swallowing it back to avoid choking in response to the change in texture. “Petyr!” 

His voice rumbled from under the blanket, “Yes, Sansa?” 

She flipped the comforter over, revealing his mane of salt and pepper waves nestled between her legs. “I said no.” 

His eyes opened to look up at her as he defiantly pressed a kiss to the crease where the elastic of her underwear often sat. He was so close, and yet still so frustratingly far away. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, unable to look at him. “I said no, and I mean it.” 

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” he chuckled, patronizing. She barely heard the groaning and television commercials in the background over the sound of smug below her bellybutton.

Sansa huffed and threw her head back. Sansa crossed her arms over her chest, with a renewed resolve. “I hate it when you don’t take me seriously.” 

“I do, my love. I do take you seriously.” His mouth hovered over her bare sex. His warm breath and the anticipation of what would come next, heated her all the way up to her already flushing cheeks. “I just think you’re being short-sighted on this.” 

Her head flew up off the pillow. “I’m the one being short-sighted?  _ Me? _ ” 

“Uh-huh,” he grinned, letting his tongue slide out and dangle playfully above her seam. 

“Don’t you dare!” Sansa scowled, frustrated at both his persistence and the constant groaning from the other room. She’d been trying to stop Petyr from burying his feelings with their physical affection, and would have considered the constant droning from the next room a blessing for infringing on the mood. Except, the muffled sound was distracting enough to break her concentration and prevent her from properly defending herself against his advances, something he seemed to be in no short supply of, completely undeterred.

Petyr eyed her as he lowered his head slowly, letting the very tip of his tongue graze the line between soft and tender. Sansa sucked in more air and brought an uncertain hand to his head. Her fingers curled around as much hair as she could grip, and a slight flick of her wrist in either direction confirmed how caught he was. There was a wave of power that washed over her as she considered the very real fact that she alone controlled Littlefinger. The urge to pivot her hips upward into his mouth quaked through her. How easy it would be to hold him to her as he clicked his tongue against her in a tattoo determined to ruin. 

It would be too easy, and over too quick. Sansa breathed deep, feeling his lips press more insistently against her folds, his tongue burrowing down deep in its search to find the bundle of nerves that would bring her ecstacy and him no small amount of pride. With all the willpower she could muster, Sansa drove her ass further down into the bed as she flexed every muscle in her arm to pull his head up. He was doing this for the wrong reasons, and she wouldn’t let him. His desire for her should be true, not a mask for something else.

He frowned at her, “You’re serious.”

She sighed and let him go, satisfied that he finally got the memo. She was unsure if whether or not he might have actually contributed that time to the steady groaning her ears had been burdened by. She reached for her flannel pajama pants, about to pull them up when he brushed her away. His voice was low and sullen as he said, “Allow me.” 

He gripped the waistband and pulled them up to her navel, and then pulled the matching button up top down to cover any visible flesh. The gentle way he ran a thumb over one of her more prominent scars along the way, did not escape her notice. When she was covered, he smoothed his hand over where the material met, as if trying to assuage the area of some violation. Sansa had felt violations before, and knew that this was not that. This was merely a lover not understanding the less than amourous way in which she responded to him. 

His eyes sparkled as he stared at her, silently trying to determine his next move. The flecks of green were brilliant in the dim lamplight of their bedroom, not the usual soft grey-green they were in any other setting. Sansa wondered if it was from the passion he was laving her with seconds ago, or if it was due to her rejection. She glanced away from him, hating to think it was the later. 

She looked down at her pajamas, taking comfort in the familiar cartoon character printed over them. Petyr preferred snoopy, and she’d learned early on who exactly that was. She never minded Petyr’s peculiar tastes in nightwear or that he found it so important that they always coordinate for bedtime. She knew it made him happy, and therefore, her happy as well. 

She wanted Christmas this year to be as merry the past two they’d shared. They’d been together since that night she’d returned to him pacing in his kitchen. They’d taken the plunge into relationship territory and never looked back, finding each day more and more fulfilling, contented in their happily ever after. Thankfully, things hadn’t been as turbulent as they were in the beginning, minus some occasional bumps in the road. They were nothing out of the ordinary as far as relationships went: finding a routine, making sure each other’s love language was complimentary, not letting work get in the way of their time together. 

Petyr was almost timid as he asked, “May I still hold you?” 

Guilt sat heavy inside of her at the hurt she heard in his voice, and she nodded. Petyr leaned forward, sprawling on top of her as he wrapped her up in his arms. He let himself press between her legs until he naturally softened, with no apparent embarrassment or feeling of remiss in doing so. “What’s wrong, my love?” His question, barely above a whisper, was followed by light kisses along her neck.

The platinum chain he wore around his neck was cold against her chest and goosebumps formed from the feel of it. Sansa stared up at the ceiling and felt her courage slipping away as she listened to the sounds of their bedroom. Unwilling to be ignored or forgotten, Petyr drove his forehead into her jaw, stroking her hair as he did. “Tell me?”

Sansa hugged him to her, knowing her show of acceptance would soothe the beast within. She turned her head slightly and pecked a kiss at his forehead before she started running her hands down his back. “It’s not that something’s  _ wrong _ , per se...” 

“There clearly is. You always let me eat out on Sundays.” He reminded her with a bit of a pout. 

He wasn’t wrong. She’d allow him to enjoy her taste any day of the week, Sundays in particular, had become an expectation because Sansa had a religious upbringing and Petyr teased her that his intimate kisses brought her closer to god. When she denied it, he counted the many times she cried out,  _ oh god _ , while he feasted on her. She was taken by surprise during one of their private moments. She hadn’t known he’d chosen to gather evidence, and had been doing so right up until the time she reached her precipice. Certainly, he’d counted that one too. She was a sweaty limp mess, trying to regain her equilibrium as Petyr climbed up to bring his sopping wet face to hers. Though she couldn’t see his smile, close enough lose in the periphery, she could see the glee in eyes as he exclaimed, “Fourteen!” 

How was a girl to argue with that? Petyr had delivered his closing argument and at her gobsmacked silence, he’d won. The new edict for their home was: Sunday breakfasts now consisted of a side of Sansa. For a renown criminal, Petyr was quite vigilant at abiding the laws of their home. 

“I know, Petyr. I know. It’s just--” Another muffled groan sounded over the television. She glanced over at the door to their room and rolled her eyes.

“What?” Petyr lifted his head and turned it to follow her gaze. “Is he bothering you?” 

“Well…” Sansa bit her lip and admitted, “It is hard to focus with him--”

“Moaning and groaning in the background,” Petyr finished. He held himself up on his elbows and shook his head. “I completely understand! Oh my love, why didn’t you say so earlier?” 

Before Sansa could say anything else, Petyr ejected himself off of her, and grabbed the gun off his nightstand. He slid his gorilla slippers on and stomped over to the the door, flinging it open as he called out, “Oswell! Brune! Bring him in.” 

Sansa knew instantly that Petyr wouldn’t be killing the man, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t still use his gun. She sighed and picked at the comforter as Petyr’s men shuffled their latest victim bound and gagged into their bedroom and threw him down on the floor. Petyr had told her before, in a similar situation that it was ‘bad juju’ to let someone he intended to kill see his gorilla slippers. This logic, however, only seemed to apply to mortal wounds, because just as he’d done back when he explained it to her, he shot the man in the shin. 

Sansa didn’t know who he was and had decided long ago that it didn’t matter. Any man Petyr tortured was nameless and faceless to her. She couldn’t think about whether or not they had a family, whether or not what they did was wrong. They were simply his work, and he respected her enough to keep it as separate from home as possible. In turn, she respected him enough to not give him grief on the rare occasion it couldn’t be kept apart from them. 

Sansa cringed a little as she listened to the man squeal from behind the gag. Petyr’s smile was more angry than amused as he growled, “It’s Christmas and I’m trying to enjoy my woman, _ intimately _ . Stop being so fucking rude!”

“Petyr.” Sansa sat up in bed and called to him, trying to calm him. She regretted letting him know she’d been bothered in the first place. 

He shook his head, the same forced smile on his lips as he paced, the plush of his slippers bobbling with each hard step. He angrily addressed the man again. “Is it funny to you? Upsetting my love?” 

Sansa reached her arm out to him, insisting, “ _ Petyr _ .”

The man continued his suppressed wails, and Petyr let his head roll back as he cursed up at the ceiling. “You are so lucky I want information from you later.” Without looking he lifted his arm and shot him again. 

“Petyr!” Sansa scolded. 

He turned his head to face her, his arms hung at his sides in defeat. “What? Did I hit something important?” 

Sansa blinked at Petyr. Bare chested and scowling, his exposed silvered scar coupled with the freshly fired pistol loose in his grip, added to his dominating presence. She let her eyes scan down to the flannel pajama pants he wore low on his waist, obstructing part of his happy trail. They matched hers, though seemed made specifically for him as they accentuated his ass so perfectly. His gun glinted in the light, contrasting against the cartoon backdrop of red doghouses and yellow birds. The sight of his gorilla slippers should have detracted from his menacing look, but on the contrary, they oddly seemed to emphasize it. Petyr was Littlefinger no matter where he was or what he wore and it had taken her time to accept that. It helped that while the murderous mob boss could stomp and storm through their bedroom, it was only ever Petyr that came to their bed, funny and sweet, thoughtful and doting.

She craned her neck to look around the man she’d grown to love so deeply over the years and eyed the man on the floor. It appeared as though Petyr hit him in the same leg. She was a little impressed with his marksmanship considering he’d shot blind. “No.” 

“Alright then, what’s the problem?” He pursed his lips at her. 

Sansa swung her legs over the side of the bed and met him square on. Her hand reached down to cover his, careful of the heavy metal gun in one of them. Her voice was calm as she looked at him. “You’re having a tantrum.” 

“My feelings are hurt.” His jaw tightened, as if that was all the excuse he needed for his behavior. 

Knowing the honesty of his words, she leaned forward and felt his grip tighten on the handle of the gun. She kissed his cheek and assured him, “I love you.” 

She could feel a bit of the tension leave his body, but knew he still carried some. “I love you, Petyr. And I’m sorry that I upset you.” 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal if you don’t want oral today. I’ll survive.” He rolled his eyes in a totally transparent way of shielding his ego. 

“That’s not what this is about, and you know it.” She knew he was hurt when upon waking to a present hovering above her head, she declined to accept it. He tried to hide his pain with their sexuality, though she was sure that was partially for his own reassurances after experiencing the slight. She moved to kiss his other cheek. “It’s not you, Petyr. I just don’t want a Christmas present this year.”

“Will you at least open it, even if you don’t keep it?” Petyr looked hopefully at her, enjoying her affection. 

Sansa nuzzled her face into his and reached to take the gun. He returned her gesture, rubbing his cheek against her as he moved his hand away, refusing to let her take it. The screaming from the floor had simmered to more moaning and crying as Sansa closed her eyes and exhaled. “I already know what it is.” 

Petyr caught her waist, and slid his palm to the small of her back as he whispered in her ear, “Is that why you don’t want to open it?” 

She held her tongue not wanting to admit it, not wanting to hurt him any further. Things were wonderful the way they were. Why did he have to push for more? She hated disappointing him. 

His lips tickled her earlobe, “Hmm?”

“Petyr, I love you.” She closed her eyes and reached for his gun again. 

“So you say,” he hummed in her ear, keeping the weapon out of reach. 

She sighed and gave up trying to disarm him. “I love you, but I don’t want an engagement ring.” There. She’d said it. She flinched waiting for him to react. Sansa didn’t think he’d hurt her at all, but knew he’d be upset and expected him to yell, or recoil away from her. When he didn’t, and nothing changed, Sansa tentatively reached for him. 

“It’s not an engagement ring, Sansa. It may look like one, but it’s not.” His tone was careful and she wondered what was going on in his head. He always had so much churning around up there, and at times she would purposefully touch him just to calm the chaos behind his eyes.

“Oh.” She suddenly felt so stupid. 

“Is that what you thought?” His hand on her back, slid under her shirt to rub against her skin in small, soothing circles. “That I was going to propose to you for Christmas, and then call that a present?” 

Him saying it outloud only made her feel stupider. “I, um…” She swallowed nervously, and clutched him close. “I guess I just thought because I’m eighteen now, maybe you’d want to marry me.” 

He cursed and itched his brow nervously with the barrel the gun and Sansa flinched, worried he’d accidentally shoot himself. She didn’t have to explain her reaction; he understood instantly. “Shit, sorry!” He chuckled and dropped the gun to his side again. 

Sansa sighed, “You really should put it away.”

“Not while there’s a stranger in our bedroom.” Petyr shook his head, “I won’t budge on this. It’s a safety issue.” 

Her cheeks bashfully dimpled. “He’s bound and gagged, and shot twice in the leg. I doubt he’s able to attack us even if he wants to.” 

Petyr let go of her back and moved his hand down to the round of her ass, giving it an affectionate tap as he scolded, “Don’t change the subject. We were talking.”

“I’m not sure I like your tone,” Sansa schooled her face to give him a rebellious look. 

“Naughty little girls who need spankings never like it when they’re reprimanded,” he breathed flirtatiously in her ear. 

Her eyes fluttered shut at the tease and she cleared her throat. “Now who’s getting off topic?” 

“I’m holding your ass right now; it’s kind of difficult to focus,” he laughed and gave it a good squeeze. 

The man’s low painful moans got louder and Sansa’s giggling ceased when she glanced his way. Petyr’s smile faded as he inhaled through his nostrils and looked up at the ceiling. Sansa kissed his jaw and coached him, “Out through the mouth, baby.”

“He’s pissing me off,” Petyr admitted. 

“I know.” She kissed his the base of his neck. “Keep breathing.” 

He nodded and blew the air out of his mouth. Sansa pecked the other side of his jaw and instructed, “Good. Now, in through the nose again.” 

Petyr complied, his lips pursing as he did. Sansa slid her palms up higher on his chest as she purred into his chin, “You’re doing great. You’re acing your anger management exercises.” She let her thumb skim his nipple as she smiled, “I’m so proud of you.” 

Another loud groan sounded and Petyr’s body grew taut as he fumed, “Oh for fuck’s sakes!” Before she could move a muscle, he raised his gun and fired. 

“Petyr!” Sansa screamed and dug her fingers into his chest. “You were doing so well!” 

He sighed and pushed away from her, staggering back to sit on the edge of the bed. Sansa tried her best to ignore the shrill screams of the man on the floor and moved to sit next to Petyr. He braced his elbows on his knees and held his head. He spoke down to the floor, “Sorry, my love. He’s just ruining Christmas.” 

“This isn’t about him, Petyr.” She rest her chin on his shoulder while she gripped his bicep. 

The hand with the gun itched his brow again. “No, it’s not.” 

She kissed his shoulder and rubbed his back as the wounded man shrieked in the background. After a brief silence he asked, “What did I hit this time?”

Sansa looked up, squinting her eyes to assess the damage. “Shoulder, I think. It’s hard to tell. There’s a lot of blood.” 

Petyr sighed, “Boys?” 

Oswell and Brune looked at each other, their eyes widening. Sansa hid her smirk at the silent game of chicken they played. Oswell, apparently having lost, glared at Brune and cleared his throat, “The lady’s correct. It was the shoulder, sir.” 

She could see Petyr’s cheek lift in a smile and she let go of his arm to reach for him, pulling his face up to look at her. Sansa rubbed her thumb over his chin and said, “The longer he lingers, the greater the likelihood that you’ll catch him somewhere in the torso.”

He turned his head and kissed her palm. “Why don’t you want to marry me?” 

Sansa sighed and let go of his face. “It’s not you, baby. It’s just marriage.”

The man writhed on the floor and Petyr set his gun on the nightstand beside them before he motioned for Oswell and Brune to take him away. Sansa watched them lift the man by each arm and asked, “Doctor?” 

Petyr rolled his eyes and sighed, “Fine, whatever you want.” 

“Don’t be like that,” Sansa scolded him. “You’re the one who said you wanted him alive, and then you kept shooting him.” 

“Well, we’re trying to talk,” Petyr rationalized as they started to drag him across their room. 

Sansa pointed at Petyr’s feet and insisted, “I’m just thinking of your slippers. _ Jinxes _ .” 

“ _ Oh, Sweetling _ ,” he gasped down at his lap, overcome by emotion. He cleared his throat and hollered after Oswell and Brune, “Call the good doc.” 

Sansa eyed the only evidence of Petyr’s prisoner in their bedroom: a trail of blood smeared from his boot as it scuffed the hardwood. Petyr’s hands found her thighs, pulling her attention back to him as he lifted her legs into his lap and held them there. There was a depth to his voice as he let his palm rub over one of her ankles and up the inside of her pant leg to her calf. “What do you mean it’s not me--just marriage?” 

Sansa knew he wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was so much older, and it was so traditional for people who loved each other to get married. Their age difference had only ever been a barrier in their relationship in regards to some childhood references, but then the spat was usually solved quickly by pawing at each other and professing their indifference of the matter while they hungrily kissed everything they could reach. That however, did not take into account generational views on major issues like marriage. She leaned back, bracing herself on the side of the bed as he massaged her leg, and inhaled before she launched into her explanation. “Marriage, as a convention. I don’t really believe in it, Petyr. You’re amazing, and if I were to ever marry anyone, it would be you, in a heartbeat. But marriage just isn’t my thing.” 

He sat quietly stroking her calf as he stared ahead at the pool of blood on their bedroom floor. The longer the silence stretched the more nervous she got. Sansa started to go back on her word, asking herself what would be so bad about being Mrs. Baelish? If it would make him happy, what did she care? It didn’t have to change anything. Surely he wouldn’t start calling her his wife overnight, he’d still call her his love. She didn’t have to call him husband either; she could continue to call him all her usual terms of endearment. She’d sign a paper and never have to think of it again. The only difference would be that she would get to sport a pretty profound rock on her finger. 

Sansa took a deep breath in resignation and started to concede when Petyr’s head slowly turned, and his eyes alight with elation bore into her. “Just when I think you can’t possibly be any more perfect than you are, you go ahead and throw me a zinger like that!” 

“What?” Sansa asked, completely missing his meaning. 

Petyr grinned. “I told you that it wasn’t an engagement ring and I wasn’t lying about that.”

Sansa blinked, not sure where he was going with the conversation. 

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it as he explained, “I don’t want to marry you. I love you too much for that, Sansa.” He brought their joined hands to his chest, “Marriage is an archaic concept, meant to trap people together. I don’t want us to feel  _ trapped _ .” Realization of what he was saying and the way in which they’d fallen in love, must have hit him suddenly because he gave her a sheepish grin and admitted, “Well, not anymore, anyway.” 

She raised an eyebrow in amusement at him. “You think marriage would ruin what we have?” 

He nodded and let go of her, only to reach for more of her to better pull into his lap. She allowed the maneuver and rested her head on his shoulder as he held her. “We’re perfect, my love. Marriage is just hallmark bullshit.” 

“You don’t want to be with me forever and ever?” She traced his scar with the pads of her fingers, surprised by the tiniest bit of disappointment she felt. She knew it was hypocritical of her, but she couldn’t help that it never felt good to feel less wanted. 

“I never said that.” He reached down to tap her bottom again. Then he tickled her ribs and teased, “For someone who so desperately doesn’t want to be my wife, that you’re willing to forgo the diamond that comes with it, you seem almost more offended than relieved.” 

Sansa fought to breath through her laughing as she squirmed free of his arms, crawling further back onto the bed. She threw a pillow at him and laughingly exclaimed, “I am offended! Why wouldn’t you want to marry me? I’m supposed to be your soulmate!” 

Petyr chuckled and lunged at her, trapping her under him. He licked his lips much like a cat would, having pounced on his paralyzed prey. “Oh, you are, my love,” he promised. One hand slid down to her wriggling hip, giving him the leverage he needed to cover her mouth with his and swallow any retort she might have had. She didn’t want to give in so easily and hated her lack of self-control for grinding up against the firm front of him. He pulled from her lips, smirking as he said, “But that doesn’t change how I feel about a piece of paper and a silly moniker.”

“Jesus Christ, Petyr!” Sansa growled back at him, pretending to be more annoyed at him than with her own body. 

He pressed himself harder against her and nipped her lip, “Mm, there’s my pious paramour.” 

She laughed again and gently slapped his back. “Shut up!” 

“Not until you open your present.” His tone took on a less playful nature. When she didn’t respond, he bent his head down and kissed her. She was aware of the hand that had traveled by her head, though assumed it was so that he could twirl his fingers in her hair as he tended to do. When he broke their kiss and looked down at her lovingly, she was surprised to see that he’d reached up under his pillow and pulled out the little black jewelry box. How long had he been sleeping over it? How long had he felt the need to keep it ready? 

Petyr lifted himself up off of her so that she could sit up. Sansa swallowed, seeing the serious look in his eye as he opened the box to show her the diamond in it. She’d seen it before when she’d divested him of his coat. He mentioned he couldn’t find his keys and she’d rifled through the pockets looking for them. She’d felt a hard lump and pulled it out to inspect more closely. The minute she realized what she was looking at, she snapped the box shut and shoved it hastily back where she found it. 

Sansa had been fretting about the ring for weeks. She liked what they had and didn’t see any need to change it. A proposal suggested that perhaps what they had wasn’t enough for him, and that would have hurt her.

Looking at it now, however, Sansa was captivated by the many lustrous prisms that shone from it. Petyr lifted the bottom of her shirt just enough to kiss one of the scars her belly was littered with, before resting his chin as he spoke. “It’s not an engagement ring. It’s a promise ring.” 

“Promise ring?” Sansa repeated in disbelief. To her knowledge, promise rings were something teenagers gave each other to round another base because they were too young to actually propose. The juvenile nature of such a token suddenly made it less scary, and she eagerly raised her hand when he plucked the ring from its case.

He placed it on her finger and stared at it for a moment, beaming. “It’s a promise to you that if I ever do wake up one day suddenly believing in all this marriage mumbo-jumbo, you’re the one I’ll ask.” 

“Aww baby, I like that.” 

“You do?” His face brightened and he tossed the empty box over the side of the bed in his excitement. 

She bit her lip and nodded. 

“Really?” He teased, “You wanna be my wifey someday when we finally decide it matters?” 

A laugh escaped her as he caught her and brought his face down to nip at the buttons of her shirt. His teeth found the elastic waistband of her pants and tugged. Sansa reached down and grabbed his shoulders, watching her new ring sparkle as she did. “Hey! No!” 

“No more  _ no _ .” Petyr pushed her shirt up and spoke into her belly. “Time for  _ yes _ .” 

“No,” she said more firmly. “It’s time for presents.” 

Petyr pulled at her pants, successfully getting them down her hip as he grinned mischievously. “I’ve already given you one present, and I’m trying desperately to give you another one, but you keep stopping me.”

“Very funny, Petyr.” Sansa grabbed at her pants, trying to yank them back up. He was stronger than her, and more persistent. It seemed like the more she worked to keep the up, the further down they went. 

She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed when she watched her pants fly over the side of the bed. He grinned victoriously above her and made to move between her legs. He was thwarted when she clamped them shut and sat up. She’d fixed a serious scowl on her face before addressing him. “I want to give you your present.” 

“Okay. Spread your legs.” He winked. 

“Petyr, I swear to God!” Sansa groaned in frustration. 

He brought a finger to his smiling lips, “Shh, I haven’t even started yet. Let’s leave God out of this til we need him.”

Sansa slapped his chest and pointed behind him. “Your closet!” 

“You gave me my own closet for Christmas?” Petyr’s brow wrinkled in confusion. 

Sansa laughed and reached into the drawer of the nightstand on her side of the bed. She held a small silver remote control out towards the closet and pressed one of the many buttons on it. He looked over his shoulder as the door to the closet automatically opened. Sansa pressed another button and smiled proudly when all of the clothes on hangers started to move to the left.

Petyr’s eyes grew wide and he covered his mouth as he watched the shelves with his shoes on them shift and move to rotate through the ones displayed. He mumbled, “ _ Brilliant. _ ” Sansa chuckled and pressed another button. His drawers opened one after the other, displaying his collection of novelty sleepwear and all his underwear. She clicked the remote again and rubbed his back as they both watched his drawers shut and then the door close. 

He turned to face her, his voice catching as he said, “You’re so perfect; I will always love you as hard and fuck you as tenderly as when you were sixteen.”

Assaulted by the romance in his words, Sansa blinked back tears as she said, “You better, because I’ll always want what we have right here, right now.” 

He closed his eyes and smiled at her words. The serenity of the moment didn’t last, however. Petyr stood up and padded barefoot off across the room. “Lay back, my love. Unless you intend to stop me yet again?”

His words reminded her of just how naked she was and she felt a twinge of modesty as she scooted back further on the bed. “No, Petyr. I won’t stop you anymore.” As if she needed to prove it, she began unbuttoning her shirt. 

“Good,” Petyr grinned as he grabbed the remote for the television.

Sansa let her shirt hang open to him and propped herself up on her elbows, bending one knee and swaying it enticingly. The television came on behind him and the channels changed as he walked towards the bed. His hand moved at his side, pressing the button on the remote, changing the channel by sound alone as he eyed her up and down. She’d have to be blind not to notice his growing interest as he neared.

“I said  _ JESUS _ is the one!  _ JESUS _ is the way!” Bellowing from the tv made her look around Petyr to see a preacher on the screen enthusing his parishioners from his podium.

“What the hell?” 

Petyr settled himself between her legs and kissed the inside of her thigh. “It’s Sunday. You’re going to start praying soon. Why not add to the ambiance?” 

Sansa laughed and swatted at him. 

He ducked his head down and then looked up at her. “Time to _ take you to church. _ ” 

She was about to tell him that wasn’t funny when the words failed to take form. Her hips bucked at the sudden intrusion, so warm and wet. There was no build up, no flirt or tease, no light kisses or nibbles. Petyr’s eyes stayed on her as he lunged forward, his mouth opened wide to cover as much of her seam as possible. He hadn’t hesitated there, plunging his tongue between her folds as soon as his lips closed over her. 

His strokes where vigorous and persistent, on the hunt for the hardened pearl hidden within. Sansa’s hands flew to his head, threading her fingers in his hair to ride out the excited ache that stirred low in her belly as he searched. She gasped out the first,  _ Oh god,  _ of many when he found it, rushing up one side, only to bank the curve and slide down the other. She was butter between her legs, melting and pooling under his hot mouth. 

When he chuckled victoriously into her, she pushed his face down to avoid the glowing green eyes and the smug smile that came from them. She knew the way she fell apart was less than flattering, and didn’t desire an audience for it, especially not a self-satisfied one. He circled her nub again before giving it a light suck and her thighs started close of their own volition. She didn’t mean for them to, wanting to stay wide open to him. It was as if her body was acting out for her own good, telling her that it was too much for her to handle. She lacked the strength to fight herself and almost cried in frustration when Petyr’s hands came up and gripped her tightly. Relief washed over her when she felt him pry open the vice grip on his head and pin her legs down, not allowing her reflexes to interfere. 

A shimmer from the diamond decorating her finger caught her eye, and she tried to keep the majority of her focus on it as her body rocked at Petyr’s will. Sansa breathed deeply, trying to gain some semblance of self-control. Chiding herself for finding such delight in the texture of his hair clutched in her hands, Sansa knew things would progress much faster than either of them would prefer if she maintained such sensitivity. She’d come to expect the incoherent trembling mass she became at the tip of his tongue. She could count on Petyr for that. Flicks would turn to beats as he rediscovered her unique rhythm, the tempo always varying, twirling and dipping her in time to the raving music of her overstimulation. 

She did not, however, expect the warm puffs of air he exhaled against her most private places, would garner such responsiveness after all this time together. Modesty brought her a tinge of embarrassment that she attempted to temper her need with. Unfortunately, it was that same small dose of shame that amplified the satisfaction she felt in knowing the bruises she’d be left with from his fingers digging into her thighs. All done before the eyes of a man of the cloth, to boot! 

Petyr’s determination, coupled with the tactile sensations she’d been beset with, topped by the sheer lewdity of the way they were celebrating Christmas, was all so much and yet not enough. The priest at the foot of the bed was screaming something about letting God into her heart and Sansa felt her chest tighten as Petyr frustratingly toyed with her threshold for pleasure. Each muscle grew taut, her body as stiff as a board and practically levitating off the bed as she uttered another, _ oh gaa, _ needing Petyr to answer her prayer instead. 

In that moment when her senses reached their maximum capacity, all fuses completely blown, she lost the ability to function and waited for her brain to reboot and bring her back to the land of the conscious. It was during her brief hiatus from the real world around her that she marveled over her luck at finding such a wonderful-- if not  _ quirky _ , man to love her.

“I love your smile,” he purred over her. 

Refusing to open her eyes, she laughed, “I was just thinking how lucky I am to have such a great guy.” Her dimples deepened as she added, “And to think, all I had to do to land you was get kidnapped and be held prisoner in a beautiful home for a few months where I was forced to online shop and play cutthroat games of croquet.” 

She opened her eyes quickly to see his puckish smile as he shrugged and excused, “Everyone’s love story is different.” He pecked a light kiss to her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Sweetling.”

“Merry Christmas, Petyr.”


End file.
